


that which yields is not always weak

by TheMalacoda



Series: web of wyrd [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, BDSM, Character Study, Choking, Closet Sex, Depression, Diary/Journal, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Eighth Umbral Era, Extreme Thirst on the part of the author, Extremely self-indulgent BS, Extremely soft romantic self-indulgent trash, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, Kissing, Meetings and Partings, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Punishment, Resolved Sexual Tension, Restraints, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Scions being a dysfunctional family, Sexual Tension, Smut, Snooping, Sparring, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Truth and Lies, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 50,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26252842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalacoda/pseuds/TheMalacoda
Summary: #FFxivWrite2020. Tags and relationships being finalized. Getting back on the chocobo after fifteen years break from writing.Table of Contents is Chapter 31!Thank you all for reading this self-indulgent garbage!Edit: Over 2k hits, ya'll cray.Edit: Over 2.5k hits? Ya'll the best but you need your heads checked.
Relationships: Azem/Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: web of wyrd [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026814
Comments: 34
Kudos: 125





	1. Crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For nigh on a century he had led and protected the people of this broken shard. At the expense of his own body and mind had he done so, yet he did not feel regret. Indeed, were he presented with the opportunity to do it all over again he would change nothing.

## Crux

### 

Definition:  
1 : a puzzling or difficult problem : an unsolved question  
2 : an essential point requiring resolution or resolving an outcome  
3 : a main or central feature (as of an argument)  


### 

For nigh on a century he had led and protected the people of this broken shard. At the expense of his own body and mind had he done so, yet he did not feel regret. Indeed, were he presented with the opportunity to do it all over again he would change nothing. Yes there had been altogether too much sleeping, or at other times not enough sleeping, the growing stiffness in his limbs as the zealous crystal raced over his skin in a grotesque parody of a lover’s touch, the black despair he felt when he recalled the final fate of the shard he had left behind. However, these things must stay because they had led him here. Every sacrifice, every trial, every denial he had forced himself to endure had all been worth it for this singular moment: The summoning was finished and he is tired to the bone but buoyed now with an enthusiasm befitting a man much younger than his three hundred summers, give or take a few. Not even the fact that he had failed to bring her directly into the Ocular and  _ missed quite badly  _ at correcting his mistake mid-summon could tarnish the taste of this victory.

Trying to steady his breathing while remaining upright, he looks and his belly clutches as he  _ finally sees her _ in the scrying mirror. The one person on whom everything depended. The crux of the very life of the star and all its’ shards. He laughs aloud, nearly hysterical with a joy that feels strange to him, like it is stirring slowly and heavily after a long sleep under cobwebs. Just her presence brings him to life, as always. The Warrior of Light… wandering the Forest of the Lost Shepherd with a pinched look on her face that he could still recognize from cold, sometimes hungover mornings in a cramped tent in Mor Dhona. He knew from experience that it was meant to be read as irritation (and at other times an unspoken request for coffee), but it was merely a convenient veil over an absolutely insatiable curiosity paired with an unrelenting drive to do anything within her power to give hope to the hopeless even at great cost to herself. Sadly, he was going to have to lean heavily on that particular facet of her personality to propel them both through these coming trials. It boggles his mind to realize afresh that he would have no hope of accomplishing this feat he had planned without the intimate knowledge of her quirks gained over a single summer,  _ Twelve have mercy _ , three full centuries ago.

She was fast approaching the guard station and a confrontation with Lyna that could derail his plans if he did not exercise care. He will need to move quickly to control the situation. The star, the shards, her life, the fulfillment of the wishes of his ancestors, and even his own destiny all rested on this very moment and he  _ must _ act accordingly. It would not be easy at all for him to interact with her while actively denying his nearly unbearable need to tell her every meticulous thing he had done every day of an eternity for her, that she had never left his thoughts or dreams not once in three hundred years, to perhaps have the chance to kiss or hold her again, and to feel the slide of her skin over his in a bed that they shared. But he had now had centuries of practice at self-denial and in any case, no matter how fervently he wishes it was not a requirement to give his life for hers at the end of this journey, he will not hesitate to forsake everything to accomplish his goals and still he would remain full glad for the opportunity to do so. The stakes of this  _ particular _ game being what they are. They had both loved games before, when they were young and inseparable, and things had been simple. Until things were no longer simple. And they had been separated.

_ No matter. We begin anew. _ Still smiling, he pulls the hood of his robes up with one crystalline hand and one clad in flesh. Up and over his graying hair and ears, hiding them and his distinctive ruby eyes so as to be no more than a shadow, a guide, a background character in her newest magnum opus and then, at the end, simply another acquaintance gone much too soon. He knows without a shadow of a doubt the depth of the pain it will cause her again, but she is strong enough to endure and so he must play the part of the Crystal Exarch to the hilt as he knows she will play the Warrior of Light in turn. The smile grows a little tighter but remains in place as he realizes that in his own way, he shall be the crux of this tale as well. The greatest game of both their lives is just beginning and he swears he will make it a performance for the ages.

_ “Just like that? Then… G’raha Tia is...?” _

_ “...I am not familiar with that name? Is there something I should know?” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When members of the Garlond Ironworks discovered his elaborate plans to use the stored aether of the Crystal Tower to summon a primal, they had the sheer gall to be alarmed. Their alarm only grew exponentially when he accidentally let slip the identity of the primal in question. He felt quite annoyed that they would so vastly underestimate his ability to both successfully complete the summoning and bend her to his will.

## Sway

### 

Definition:  
1 : the action or an instance of swaying or of being swayed : an oscillating, fluctuating, or sweeping motion  
2 : an inclination or deflection caused by or as if by swaying  
3a : a controlling influence  
3b : sovereign power : DOMINION  
3c : the ability to exercise influence or authority : DOMINANCE  


### 

In the beginning it had been purely an exercise to distract his shattered mind from the knowledge that she had died nearly two centuries past in a calamity that he had chosen to sleep through. The irony that the only two reasons for his self-imposed exile had both imploded while he was locked inside the tower did not escape him. Indeed, the pain of this information had driven him, quite frankly, a _little mad_ and so naturally he did not see any harm at all in turning a single simple question over in his mind: Concocting many purely hypothetical plans of action; mentally working through any imagined issues that might arise -- no need for alarm, just an exercise. So much time and effort had gone into this _exercise_ though, that he felt the need to write everything down. Always the Archon, it had seemed a waste to squander such knowledge without thorough testing, even if he was not the one to test it.

When members of the Garlond Ironworks discovered his elaborate plans to use the stored aether of the Crystal Tower to summon a primal, they had the sheer _gall_ to be _alarmed_ . Their alarm only grew exponentially when he _accidentally_ let slip the identity of the primal in question. He felt quite annoyed that they would so vastly underestimate his ability to both successfully complete the summoning and bend her to his will. _Control_ was a legacy entrusted to him by his blood and he knew that by using that power they could save this star: He, the last prince of Allag and she, the Warrior reborn as a goddess. 

And so, he summoned her, partially to sate his curiosity and partially to prove them wrong. Though truly, he knew that only he had been capable of this most magnificent of works. He understood now with all of his being, why so long ago Amon had wished to resurrect Emperor Xande in order to recapture glory for his people and thereby save them from sliding into a destruction of their own making. The Ixali too, Allagan creations that they were, knew full well the appeal of a goddess brimming with beauty and cruelty in equal measure that would come to right all wrongs and usher them upward into a new Utopia.

 _Stella Maris_ . The star of the sea. The guiding light by which all would know love and salvation. She manifested in a blinding flash of purest white and swathed in robes of deep cerulean. Her skin shone as luminescent as the moon and her hair, floating behind her on invisible currents of her own power, was a shade of heliotrope only visible in the fleeting seconds before dusk was fully consumed by night. When she looked at him, _through him_ , the raw beauty of newborn galaxies spun wild in her left eye, while her right eye, that which in life had been a warm but solid true black, was now a bottomless void. A void only rivaled by the deepest, darkest chasms in the absolute expanse of the ocean. He knew instinctively that he had already been tempered, but was delighted to discover that he did not care. In the same way the craftsmen of Hingashi repaired broken pottery with gold, so too had he been made anew in her love. The shattered pain of him healed with the most brilliant starlight.

_ <<< Beloved, by your fervent desires have I been given form and purpose. All shall partake of my love or they shall know only despair. Prince of Allag, I charge you to advance my gift upon this land. >>> _

When she spoke he could _feel_ her voice in his brain and bones. He could _taste_ her power in the air, a heady wine of visceral violence held ever so lightly in check by boundless love. _Their power_ , for she was his and he was hers now. His devotion to her was a madness that fairly sang in his veins and he would gladly stomp out any life on this star that did not thrum only with love for her, as he did. By the symbiotic exchange of love and control between themselves in an exquisite ouroboros would they become as gods to conquer this broken world and deliver it from these trials. They would build an almighty empire solely in service to _Their Love_ and from it would flow an endless river of _Their Will_ to scour away all pain and suffering. 

~~*~~*~~*~~

He woke suddenly with a gasp, his hand over his lips to stifle the sound. Rubbing that same hand over his face, he realized he was in his new room in the Rising Stones. Cool starlight had filtered in through the window and had alighted softly upon Stelmaria’s bare shoulder, as though it existed purely to showcase her. She was peaceful in repose for once, but he selfishly could not bring himself to let her rest. Not while his old fears about his Allagan blood floated so near the surface of his exhausted mind. They seemed to reappear more frequently since his return to the Source. Just like in his dream, he was driven by a pure instinct to worship her so that she might in turn save him again with her love. However unlike his dream, she was alive and _warm_ and yielded sweetly when he kissed her with the unfettered need of a man already more than half mad. When he allowed himself to touch her with his own two hands now made of flesh, she shivered and breathed his name as though it were a prayer. He knew that he would not, could not, control her but he fell under her sway gladly and was perfectly content that she would love him on her own terms. She was not a primal here and now but she had tempered him all the same and the blasphemous truth of it caused his mind to come undone at her gently fevered touch upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I just couldn't help myself. My headcanon is that G'raha sees his Allagan heritage as both a blessing and a curse so he constantly worries that he could tip toward madness if pushed too far. 
> 
> He got pushed too far. Until I chickened out and made it all a dream.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	3. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alisaie Leveilleur had just returned from Amh Areng with a smile on her face, a spring in her step, and a bag full of ancient lizard droppings in her pocket. Eventually she would find her way over to her brother’s room in the Pendants so that she could conveniently lose the droppings in his bed but for now she was content to enjoy a pleasant starlit night wandering around the Crystarium. Perhaps other mischief could be made in the meantime?

## Muster

### 

Definition:  
_noun_  
1 : a representative specimen : SAMPLE  
2a: an act of assembling  
_specifically_ : formal military inspection  
2b: critical examination  
2c: an assembled group : COLLECTION  


### 

Alisaie Leveilleur had just returned from Amh Areng with a smile on her face, a spring in her step, and a bag full of ancient lizard droppings in her pocket. Eventually she would find her way over to her brother’s room in the Pendants so that she could  _ conveniently _ lose the droppings in his bed but for now she was content to enjoy a pleasant starlit night wandering around the Crystarium. Perhaps other mischief could be made in the meantime?

On a whim, she moved down from the Amaro Launch toward the Hortorium when she heard what sounded like….. Singing? Humming? Whatever it was, it seemed to be coming from the Cabinet of Curiosity. With all the boundless energy of her youth, Alisaie positively prances over to the Cabinet’s door with a flourish, opens it just the tiniest crack, and presses her eye to the gap.

A pink-cheeked Moren is fairly dancing about inside, taking books seemingly at random from shelves to either replace them on a different shelf entirely or set them aside on a table. He is singing off-key some song that Alisaie cannot clearly place, since half the words are garbled by his drunkenness, but what she does understand seems to be about walking into a brothel with a honeycomb and an amaro? The table is piled high with books of all shapes and sizes and colors and  _ just _ as she feels certain that one more on top will cause the whole damn thing to crash over on top of Moren and pin him to the floor… he stands at attention before the table.

And salutes the entire room.

Alisaie knows a good time when she sees one coming. In preparation, she stuffs her own fist in her mouth to muffle the sound of the laughter she feels inexorably bubbling up from her chest.

“ _ Gentlemen _ !” says Moren crisply. Well... as  _ crisply _ as a thoroughly soused librarian can manage to be in any case. “ _ Ladies! Titles of a nonbinary persuasion! _ ” He pauses, as though expecting applause.

The books do not applaud. Alisaie waits.

“I have gathered you here this fine evening to conduct your annual review. Those of you currently on shelves have passed muster and will serve another year as esteemed tools of learning for the fine people of the Crystarium. My heartfelt congratulations on your most excellent work. A round of applause for them please if  _ youwouldbesokind _ ?” The last bit is slurred together badly as Moren nearly trips over yet another pile of books on the floor. Straightening, he applauds wildly and cups his hands around his mouth to mimic a great crowd cheering.

Tears are silently running down Alisaie’s face and her ribs are starting to ache, but she dare not look away lest she miss even one second of one of the greatest scenes she has ever had the pleasure to witness.

Moren raises his hands as though to ask for silence, then continues, “If you are on a table or the floor I am very sorry to say that it is time for you to either be re-bound or retired from circulation.” These last words have a distinctly muffled quality, as if Moren is fighting tears. “Yes, truly we will be sorry to see you go. As they say, all good things must come to an end. We will miss you deeply as we continue our work here in your stead.” He pauses a moment to wipe his eyes. “Please consider this your retirement party! There will be dancing and an open bar so help yourselves!” At this point, he picks up the closest book and begins to waltz with it slowly, humming to himself an even more off-key version of the bawdy song from before.

Alisaie however, has taken the opportunity to wipe her eyes and go quickly in search of someone,  _ anyone _ who would appreciate this scene for what it is. For her, there is only one acceptable answer. Stelmaria Meioh: the Warrior of Darkness, Eikon Slayer, Defender of Eorzea, Liberator of Doma and Ala Mhigo, Bringer of Night, and lover of watching other people make complete asses of themselves.

She beelines directly for the Pendants, expecting to charge straight up the stairs to Stelmaria’s room only to nearly miss running over the very same woman already exiting the Pendants with the Crystal Exarch. The young Elezen fails to notice that they were holding hands or that the Exarch leaps away from Stelmaria as if he has been stung.

“Stelmaria! You must come quickly! Moren is drunk and waltzing with his books! For the love of all that is good on this star you will regret it if you don’t come right this very----wait, why is the Exarch here?” Alisaie takes a second to try to catch her breath and rub her aching ribs. “Good evening by the way, Exarch.”

“Good evening Alisaie and please, just call me G’raha now,” replies G’raha Tia smoothly, though every line of his face and even the posture of his russet ears is a perfect picture of guilt. This time it  _ is _ noticed and filed away for later mischief. “I was just getting the official report on Stelmaria’s most recent exploits in the Empty with Ryne and--”

“Never mind that nonsense! What’s this about  _ Moren being drunk _ ?!” Stelmaria is nothing if not a woman with her priorities in order. “ _ Oooh _ I’d dearly love to see this.” Her voice lowers and she leans towards the younger woman conspiratorially, ears piqued, eyes gleaming, and tail a perfect curl of intrigue, “Alisaie, did you know he always only shows me picture books? I swear he thinks I am illiterate.” She hooks her arm in Alisaie’s elbow and gathers her long skirts in her free hand, all the better to move quickly. ”Lead on, little sister.”

G’raha Tia seems torn between amusement and something the Elezen cannot quite put her finger on as he watches the two women move away from him arm in arm, head to head, whispering in a way that did not at all bode well for poor Moren. “I’ll just take myself to bed then. Good night Stelmaria! Alisaie!” Neither woman looks back.

It is only much later as Alisaie Leveilleur awaits a certain high pitched squeal with exquisite anticipation, mostly concealed within a large-ish potted plant outside her brother’s room, that she remembers that official reports to the Exarch are  _ normally _ given with all of the Scions present in the Ocular and certainly  _ not _ privately in the Warrior of Light’s apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things get wild when it's just us librarians and the books ya'll don't understand. Library life represent!
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	4. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Darling, as much as it would suit me just fine, we cannot spend all day in bed.” He fairly danced away from her, ears wiggling, apparently not impressed in the slightest. “And as far as you besting me, I may lack the Blessing of Light and a Ninth Rejoining but I do have something on the order of a century of combat experience. I daresay you will find I am not so easy to defeat.” He circled slowly around to her right, aetherial shield up and his languid smile turning feral.

## Clinch

### 

Definition:  
_noun_  
1 : the position two people are in when they are holding each other tightly in their arms, when fighting or showing love

_ verb _  
1 : to settle (a matter) decisively  
2 : to finally get or win something  


### 

It was a quiet and peaceful afternoon in the Rising Stones as the Scions of the Seventh Dawn read, cared for weapons, or took refreshment while they could before the next battle came.

Until the Leveilleur twins came through the front door like a pair of runaway chocobos.

“Stelmaria and G’raha are sparring outside near St. Coinach’s!” yelled Alisaie, nearly breathless with excitement.

“I do hope she doesn’t _hurt_ him. He’s only just getting settled in here…” worried Alphinaud, as he followed his sister into the next room to tell more people the news.

Tataru Taru returned a little later with her arms full of a rather large tea tray to find only Urianger, who was taking his ease with a fresh cup of tea and seemed to be in no mood to go to St. Coinach’s, “Verily, thine compatriots hath hied to St. Coinach’s Find, Mistress Tataru. If thou dost wish to see a mummer’s farce then pray make all haste.”

______________________________

“Looks as though we are about to have company?” Distant movement on the path from Revenant’s Toll had caught G’raha’s eye as he swung toward Stelmaria’s side with his aetherial blade. “I _knew_ we shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.”

She grinned wickedly, fangs visible, “I told you that even getting dressed was a mistake. It’s almost _always_ a mistake. You should have just taken my word for it.” Moving out of the way of his sword, she flashed her shield at him before attempting a strike from the left. “They are hoping to see me best you. I’ve a mind to oblige.”

“Darling, as much as it would suit me just fine, we cannot spend all day in bed.” He fairly danced away from her, ears wiggling, apparently not impressed in the slightest. “And as far as _you besting me_ , I may lack the Blessing of Light and a Ninth Rejoining but I _do_ have something on the order of a century of combat experience. I daresay you will find I am not so easy to defeat.” He circled slowly around to her right, aetherial shield up and his languid smile turning feral. Stelmaria swallowed visibly. She seemed… _distracted_.

He had been delighted to discover that the bravado of the young man he is now on the Source combined with the hard-earned confidence of the Exarch he had been on the First was apparently irresistible to his lover. He relished the effect it seemed to have on her: The most powerful woman in Eorzea, possibly on all of Hydaelyn, completely _helpless_ with desire at the slightest touch was a feeling he was sure would never wear out its welcome. It was why, in spite of retiring earlier than everyone else each evening for the last moon, he was actually only getting by on around five bells worth of rest at a time. It is very difficult indeed to sleep with any regularity when the Warrior of Light warms your bed.

He crossed swords with her purely so that he could sidle close enough to speak into her ear, pressing his thigh and shoulder tightly against hers, “Are you thinking about two nights ago? I am... you wore my _favorite_ thigh high boots and _nothing else_. Do you recall how I took you over my desk until your legs nearly gave out underneath you? How many times do you think you cried out my name that night my love?” 

Her ears pinned flat to her skull in surprise and the fur on her tail stood on end. With pupils blown wide, she stared at him, suddenly dry lips drawing back from fangs so she could run the tip of her tongue across them, “I-- You--” She trailed off and looked away, obviously thinking of something that was not at all _chaste_. All of her finely honed self-preservation instincts had fled: fighting form completely forgotten, her sword and shield held loosely in nerveless fingers.

G’raha’s grin grew wider. She was _very_ distracted. He moved quickly to her left, and used his shield to knock hers off her arm where it went spinning onto the ground. He allowed his own shield to dissipate as she stumbled mentally and physically for a moment before trying to take her sword in both hands and _focus_.

But it was too late. G’raha seized her wrist and twisted it sharply upwards behind her back and towards his chest, forcing her to turn away from him and drop her sword. Then, he placed the edge of his own blade against her throat and kept it there, its’ aether buzzing like bees trapped in a jar. He could not resist kissing her ear before torturing her further with velvet whispers while she gasped and writhed against him in pain and desire alike, “Would you like to continue these exertions in _my_ room? Or _yours_ ?” His voice edged closer to a purr, and he could feel the pulse in her wrist flutter wildly beneath his fingers, “I have an idea darling, why don’t you wear that _long_ dress you found while you were assisting the dwarves in Kholusia… the one with the lace on the back and the slit up the side? And you can leave it _on_ while I----”

“ _Thal’s balls!_ Did G’raha just best the Warrior of Light?! That’s how you clinch a victory, my friend!” Thancred’s voice could surely carry when he wanted it to. The crowd of Scions that had surrounded them completely unnoticed burst into at least ten conversations, a half dozen bad jokes, and the clinking sounds of great sums of gil changing hands, none of which G’raha had any patience for at the moment. As a general rule, he had patience for a great many things. Three centuries of life will teach an abundance of patience, but he had no patience at all when it came to his wants after his return to the Source and the reclaiming of his youth. And he wanted _her_ , so long as she would have him.

While the Scions were all busily making noise and paying no mind, he let her go and bent to retrieve her sword and shield while she rubbed her wrist and shoulder, one fang peeking out from a slight grimace. Her hair had come slightly loose, as had his own, and her bangs were getting into her eyes. She looked altogether rather _marvelously disheveled_ and he felt an irrational need to take her into his arms right now and thoroughly _debase_ her. The thought sent color to his face and his blood thundering in his ears.

“You cheated”, she said, but he knew that she was not upset. She was still looking at him with raw desire, and reached out one hand to receive her weapons. In answer, he instead captured her fingers and drew the knuckles across his lips excruciatingly slowly, his own eyes glittering dark rubies filled with need and amusement in equal measure.

Dropping her hand, G’raha turned on one heel to get Tataru’s attention, “I am feeling a bit out of sorts Tataru. I believe I shall return to the Rising Stones to have a bath and retire early. Do you think I could take my evening meal in my room?”

This brief exchange seemed to bring the Warrior out of her daze just long enough for her to take her weapons and say in a breathless rush, “Tataru may I also have my evening meal in his room? We’re going to…..” there was a gravid pause and her cheeks colored slightly, “ _study_. Pray, excuse me.” She set off for the Rising Stones at a run. G’raha Tia, looking every ilm the coeurl in the dodo’s nest, was not far behind.

Tataru _goggled_ as though she had been rooted to the floor by levin. To a man, the rest of the Scions watched them walk away with similarly shocked expressions. Finally, Alphinaud broke the tension by looking up from counting an enormous sum of gil to ask, “What was all _that_ about? Did I miss something?”

Alisaie hit her twin sharply over the head as raucous laughter followed G’raha and Stelmaria into Revenant’s Toll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combat is hard and I must needs go to horny jail.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	5. Matter of Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t. Please just don’t. Don’t act like it is certain.”
> 
> “And I am telling you that it is certain. The Eighth Umbral Calamity was averted and the series of events that brought me to this shard has also ceased to exist. Therefore, I will cease to exist as well. It is simply a question of when.” You clench your jaw tightly. There it is again. That tone. By the Gods you hate it.

## Matter of Fact

### 

Definition:  
adhering to the unembellished facts  
also : being plain, straightforward, or unemotional  


### 

“How can you be so  _ matter of fact _ about it?” You round on him as soon as you enter the Umbilicus and he locks the door behind you. The corners of your eyes grow hot and you blink to keep the tears at bay. You had only just walked through the portal from the Source when the Exarch--G’raha Tia--asked to speak with you and the Scions in the Ocular. It was not a pleasant conversation by any means, with him offering  _ again _ to commit suicide to send the Scions back into their bodies on the Source. They had all looked at you to see how to respond, but Alisaie had taken the words right out of your mouth, ” _ How can you even entertain such thoughts!? You owe your life to the Warrior of Light, and you don't get to die unless she says so _ .” 

“Because they  _ are _ the facts, my love. No more and no less.” He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. His shoulders sag and it seems he is shrinking into himself with the weight of what he is imparting. “I know you have forgiven me for what passed between us before, but if we are to be together now you must understand the truth of my circumstances fully. It pains me to hide things from you any longer.”

He moves to sit in the chair behind his desk and you feel unexpectedly fragile in this room filled with one hundred years of books and correspondence and memories without you in them. It chafes to think on how long you have been without each other, especially now when he is reminding you that he will die and there isn’t a  _ damned _ thing you can do about it. You hated how he had tried to destroy himself for your sake without bothering to tell you before, and now you hate him for informing you that his heartbeats are still numbered. Sometimes even the Warrior of Light finds herself in a battle that she cannot win.

“Don’t. Please just  _ don’t _ . Don’t act like it is certain.”

“And I am telling you that it is certain. The Eighth Umbral Calamity was averted and the series of events that brought me to this shard has also ceased to exist. Therefore,  _ I _ will cease to exist as well. It is simply a question of  _ when _ .” You clench your jaw tightly. There it is again. That  _ tone _ . By the Gods you  _ hate _ it. 

He opens his eyes and picks up a stack of papers from his desk to shuffle through before continuing, carefully avoiding looking you in the eyes. “I cannot remain here on the First when my continued existence is a paradox, nor can I return to the Source when there is already a G’raha Tia in residence. Further, as soon as the Scions return home, I will most likely die. Since it seems to be my life trapping them here, it stands to reason the opposite is also true. Additionally, this latest news from Krile makes it quite clear that the Scions must return to their bodies with all haste. They are becoming too unstable, and I promised all of you that I would correct my many mistakes.” He sets down the stack of papers, still unread, and pinches the bridge of his nose as though he feels an incipient headache.

Suddenly nerveless, you collapse into the chair on the other side of his desk and lean forward to place your head in your hands.  _ Count to ten. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think of something pleasant… Amaros perhaps? Don’t think about how he could drop dead at any second. Don’t think about how he only just came back into your life and now he will leave you again… is planning to leave you again. _

Steeling yourself, you sit back up and put on your most winning smile for him, as though you are sliding a mask into place. You have had many years of practice at not showing how much things hurt you. Finally, he meets your eyes and sees through your facade. His expression turns gentle, causing your heart to twist painfully in your chest.

“I cannot in good conscience allow us to continue to rekindle,” he says softly and gestures at the space between you, “whatever we have here without being certain that you understand. Our time is short indeed but…” He sighs again, tiredly. “Do you remember after Amaurot when I was confined to my bed for a time from my injuries? We had a long discussion about  _ us  _ and our past and the many things we had left unresolved. Then we spoke of what it was that  _ we _ wanted now. You told me that with my duty done, for the most part, I was free to  _ want _ things for myself again.” He stands and walks around the desk to place the hand that was still his own on the back of your neck then runs his fingers gently down along your spine where the dress you are wearing is open to the air. 

“ _ This _ is what I want my dear. To be with you.” His voice becomes thick, as though he is holding back tears of his own. “To have a new adventure. To love and protect you as best I can, so long as you will have me.” He sits on top of his desk and takes your hand from your lap to hold it. The sight of him like this is a little strange to you, until you realize it is because you haven’t seen him act so casual since those ancient days in the Syrcus Trench.

“I know you and Alisaie think otherwise but I do not want to just die. I wish to fight.” His garnet eyes meet yours and he looks to be weighing his options. “I was not entirely truthful earlier with the Scions, but I will share with you what I know. I may have found a….  _ loophole. _ One that will allow me to return to the Source  _ with _ you and the Scions. Y’shtola’s comments earlier show that I am not the only one thinking along these lines. It might be possible.” He speaks quickly, obviously uncomfortable with so much honestly. Old habits die hard.

It takes a minute for his words to penetrate the quagmire that is currently your mind. “Wait. What?”  _ Eloquent. _

“I cannot share any details yet as I have only done some  _ very _ preliminary research, but it looks promising. We will see what we may learn after returning from the Grand Cosmos. In any case, I felt that you should be the first to know what I  _ do _ have. While this will be my priority for some time, you have my word that any moment I am not solving this problem I will be available for you.” He stops to look at you, expectantly, with your hand still in his. His thumb is brushing small circles across the backs of your knuckles.

“I don’t need any details and I wouldn’t understand even if you told me. As you recall, I am no Archon.” All the irritation and sadness leave your body in a rush. You fairly leap to your feet, surprising him, judging by the way his ears move. 

“Are you still unhappy with me?” He follows you but looks down at your still joined hands, brows knitted and ears falling into a droop. He looks like a naughty kit caught stealing a sweet, which he must have been at some point now that you think of it. He bites his lower lip before continuing. “I will try to stop being so cavalier about my situation. I know that it hurts you and I apologize.”

“Just kiss me, idiot,” you say and pull sharply on the front of his robes.

He does not need to be told twice. His arms come around you lightly and he presses his lips to yours, softly, sweetly, as though you are made of glass. You take the softness of his lower lip in your teeth and he groans, pulling you flush against him. His tongue runs across your lips so you open your mouth to receive him, a greed rising in both of you that threatens to be overwhelming. He pulls away from your mouth slowly, obviously at great effort, but he cannot seem to stop holding you.

“We must needs go to see a fae about souls my love. If we do not leave now, we will get distracted for several bells.” From your position with your head against his throat, you can feel his chest vibrate as he chuckles. “As much as I would enjoy that turn of events it would not do to keep the Scions waiting.”

“When did you become so frustratingly responsible?” You kiss his neck, where the Archon tattoo was before the crystal laid claim to him like a jealous lover, and he inhales sharply. Still, you are the one to move away from him and turn towards the door. Carmine eyes follow your every movement greedily, with ears pricked up. “Let’s go get into trouble then,” you say lightly.

The pair of you grin in anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'lls comments are giving me life! <3
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	6. Colloquial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This particular evening the nine Scions had managed to polish off a half dozen bottles of Lowland White and Realm Reborn Red in the three bells since dinner. They were not drunk per se, but they were looser than they had been for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the prompt for this from the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day for yesterday, September 6, 2020.

## Colloquial

### 

Definition:  
1a : used in or characteristic of familiar and informal conversation; also : unacceptably informal  
1b : using conversational style  
2 : of or relating to conversation : conversational  


### 

For several years now, it was the habit of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to enjoy wine or coffee and keep each other company with conversation until it was time to retire for the night. The addition and sadly, the subtraction of faces did not change this tradition. Indeed, it was due to traditions like this one that the Scions were more like a tight-knit family than a group of professionals with a common interest in the good of the realm. They shared in each other’s personal triumphs and failures just as much as battlefield ones, and they believed they were all the stronger for it.

Unsurprising then, that G’raha and Krile had been included in these evenings from the beginning of their stay in the Rising Stones. While the Scions were on the First, it had been only Tataru and Krile in the evenings. Now with the Scions finally at home, G’raha officially part of the family, and Krile always an esteemed guest, evenings at the Rising Stones had been quite lively to say the least.

This particular evening the nine Scions had managed to polish off a half dozen bottles of Lowland White and Realm Reborn Red in the three bells since dinner. They were not  _ drunk _ per se, but they were  _ looser _ than they had been for quite some time.

G’raha Tia had an arm loosely around Stelmaria’s shoulders, and his lips pressed to her ear. They were both rather pink in the face and he was giving a semi-private demonstration of how crystal wine glasses can ring when you slide a wet finger around the rim. He pulled away from her ear just as the crystal began to sing, the unearthly tone filling the room during a lull in conversation. “See? Just so,” he said softly, his expression softer still, “I could teach you to make other things  _ sing _ , if you like?”

The implication being obvious, of course. 

Alisaie looked at them from across the table: happy, smiling, tails entwined, the Warrior of Light deeply relaxed and her eyes alight as she watched him.

It was too sweet. Too peaceful. It wouldn’t do  _ at all _ . Alisaie needed mischief like she needed oxygen in her lungs. With calculated innocence she asked, “What is everyone’s favorite swear?” 

That the Twins were not immediately sent to their rooms so the adults could  _ talk _ without Alisaie and Alphinaud in earshot was proof that all the Scions were quite lax indeed tonight.

Thancred, with his usual rakish expression somehow  _ not at all _ lessened by the color in his cheeks from a tad too much alcohol, was the first to bite. “Thal’s balls. Thal’s  _ gilded _ balls, if I’m feeling fancy.” 

The table broke out in giggles and Y’shtola barked a laugh, her eyes shining brightly and her wine glass paused halfway to her lips, “You have spent too long in Ul’dah, Thancred. The Limsa way is to invoke Llymlaen’s tits,” she said rather deadpan, as was her way, but the line of her ears betrayed her merriment.

Tataru offered hers next, and she stirred them into gales of laughter with an expertly told story about a drunk in The Forgotten Knight before the end of the Dragonsong War, who had been thrown unceremoniously out into the snow. The other patrons had apparently overheard him comparing the current weather to ‘Halone’s tits in a bronze brassiere.’

“Why is it  _ always _ tits?” asked Alphinaud, quite serious... considering the topic of conversation. “Yda--Lyse, really--would absolutely dissolve into giggles every time she surprised Papalymo because he would shout about the Matron’s teats.” He sighed, remembering others who were now beyond their reach, a trifle maudlin from the one glass of wine mixed with seltzer they had allowed him.

Krile seemed to be in a wistful mood as well, fiddling with the stem of her glass and saying, “Old Galuf was not one for swearing, but he did sometimes make an oath upon Thaliak’s  _ spectacles  _ if I recall correctly. Usually requesting strength in the neverending trials that seemed to  _ reliably _ involve a certain Seeker. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you, my dear Raha?” Her eyes twinkled merrily in his direction, love apparent in her gaze.

G’raha snorted and set down his empty wine glass. He leaned back again to run his fingers through Stelmaria’s hair and pressed a kiss to the side of her head as she settled against his shoulder. “Mayhap. He was always after me about some such or other. Galuf Baldesion suffered from a distinct lack of  _ fun _ , but that did not stop me from having much of my own right under his nose.” He met Krile’s eyes, and it was obvious to all that he treasured her, just as she did him. “Still, we loved him all the same didn’t we Krile?”

Krile sniffed a little and nodded her head. The room went quiet for a moment as the Scions enjoyed each other’s company and the respite.

Until Stelmaria, not to be outdone, said, “Why haven’t any of you said  _ fuck _ ? That’s my fucking  _ favorite  _ word.”

The Scions exploded into a fit of hilarity that left no few gasping for breath and wiping streaming eyes. 

Sadly, Alisaie nor Alphinaud was there to witness it, or even hear the word in question as Urianger, with his sixth sense for these things, had sprung to his feet and ushered them away as soon as the Warrior had opened her mouth to speak. Alphinaud went placidly, but Alisaie grumbled like a naughty kobold and then lay in her bed awake for hours afterward, feeling like she had been dealt a great injustice.

  
“ _ By the fucking Twelve _ ,” she muttered under her breath, before finally rolling onto her side and trying to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Alisaie almost as much as I love writing Raha. <3
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	7. Nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smile better suits a hero.
> 
> Yes, a hero. He had always believed that was what you were, even when you didn’t. Especially when you didn’t, after G’raha and Ul’dah and the whole mess with the Crystal Braves. You had confessed to him your side of the whole sorry affair one evening. The weight of it all almost beating you down into nothingness but he listened, then comforted you, laughed with you, and held you while you cried. Which was exactly what you needed--a dependable friend, who saw you as a person and not a title.

## Nonagenarian

### 

Definition:  
a person whose age is in the nineties  


### 

Despite being a professional dealer of death, you are not very good with the particulars of the aftermath. And when the deceased was your lover….

You wished you had never had to learn how totally inept you are at this.

The Dragonsong War is over now and you finally have time to grieve, but you aren’t really sure how. You just knew you needed some time alone with your thoughts. And with him.

Camping in the Coerthas Central Highlands is an ordeal of course, but when the alternative is staying at Camp Dragonhead with the people he had loved and the memories you had shared, it was an easy choice. Nothing in the wilds could possibly harm you in any case. You had arrived this morning and pitched your tent at Providence Point, as close to his grave as you could get without it feeling like sacrilege. Not that raising a tent was even necessary, as you planned to keep vigil on the snow next to his grave, which will be an uncomfortable experience, but you don’t care. It smacks of penance, in a way, and you will bear it just to feel something.

_ A smile better suits a hero. _

Yes, a hero. He had always believed that was what you were, even when  _ you _ didn’t.  _ Especially _ when you didn’t, after G’raha and Ul’dah and the whole mess with the Crystal Braves. You had confessed to him your side of the whole sorry affair one evening. The weight of it all almost beating you down into nothingness but he listened, then comforted you, laughed with you, and held you while you cried. Which was exactly what you needed--a dependable friend, who saw you as a person and not a title. Eventually, he knew your every black misery, your every secret sorrow, your every fervent desire and he never thought less of you or stopped wanting to be with you. Falling in love with him, and he with you, had been as natural as breathing. He had freely given you everything you had lost: a home, a family, and safety. The only thing he ever asked was that you smile more, so that others could be inspired by your newfound joy. It had seemed such a simple request, such a small thing, a trifle really. You would do anything he wanted, and being happy was so easy with him always there to catch you should you fall.

Now he was gone, and smiling seemed like scaling a cliff you could not even see, let alone imagine the summit of.

Night is falling rapidly and it has gotten colder while you sat by his grave. You could feel the chill slowly settling over your bones and into your joints, like a blanket woven of abject despair. Perhaps you would turn into a solid block of ice and just remain here, another monument to his memory. Idly, you wonder if climbing into the grave with him would be anything like all those times you had climbed into his bed and decide that it's a silly comparison. The grave isn’t anything like a bed, other than the fact that he is presently in one and not the other. Nor will he ever be again.

The realization sends a fresh wave of shuddering sobs through your body. “You know how much I hate people sacrificing themselves for my sake. Why would you do this? How could you do this to me?!” Now that they have started the sobs and screams seem impossible to stop. “We were supposed to get old together you idiot! Always together at ninety and beyond, decrepit and doddering but still in love. ‘A little house with a little garden’ for me to take care of, for a start. That’s what you said--you promised.”

Your misery is a rabid beast in your chest made of howling fire that claws feverishly, desperately at your throat to escape. Unbidden, Haurchefant’s final moments flash through your mind and a guttural cry is wrenched from your lips. It was the second time in your short life when your entire future had been ripped unceremoniously from you because the one you loved was  _ faster, cared more, saw farther. _ “I was never a hero Haurchefant, my love, it was  _ always _ you. What can I possibly do without you?”

“What are you doing  _ Warrior _ ?” The terse words startle you, making you realize how thoroughly you have been absorbed in your own agony. 

“Go  _ away _ Estinien.” you grumble, bringing your knees up to hide your face in your arms. You hope he will go away if you refuse to engage with him.  _ Of all the bloody people. Of all the godsdamned times. _ It had to be him, of course. The Gods were cruel indeed.

“What are you doing?” He asks again sharply, reaching with one gauntleted hand to grab your shoulder and shake roughly. Irritation smolders within you, then bursts into flames at his next words: “Answer me or I shall take you back into Ishgard myself and have a healer look at you.”

You jerk your head up to look at him fiercely, teeth bared, like an animal disturbed in its den. He has removed his helm, and his long hair is shimmering in the starlight now that the sun has set. “I said  _ go away _ Estinien,” your words tremble with barely contained fury, “I do not require your  _ Twelvesdamned _ opinion, nor do I want your judgement.”

His eyes narrow with realization and characteristically, the line of his mouth becomes a snarl. Uncharacteristically, he seats himself next to you on the frozen ground, with all the ethereal grace of a predator. “You shall have both whether you will it or no.” Your rage cools just slightly, overtaken by curiosity for the moment.

Unable to help yourself, you watch his face as he tries to collect his thoughts. HIs brows knit, his lips purse, and his eyes cast downward as he readjusts the miniscule moving parts of his gauntlets before speaking aloud, “He would not want this for you.”

Tears begin to roll slowly down your cheeks again at this truth, but the fury within you wakes anew. The beast will not be quiet until it has screamed its fill at the very heart of the star. “That does not change  _ anything _ for me. I have loved and lost  _ twice _ now. You do not understand how I feel so do not  _ presume-- _ ”

He answers your fury with his own, as cold and silent as the grave you are both contemplating but his eyes, still on his gauntlet, are sharp like steel in a face filled with unearthly beauty, “He was  _ my _ friend too. Do not  _ presume _ that I have not loved and lost in turn. You shame him and others who care for you--love you--by hiding away and  _ wallowing _ like a child.” His voice becomes quieter, but it still has an edge of authority as he turns to look you full in the face. “There is much that requires your presence and he ensured that you would be here to attend to it. Honor him with the rest of your life.”

“Alphinaud sent you didn’t he?” You chuckle as though you have gone mad at this realization, and it sounds very strange to your ears, almost like you had forgotten it was an act you were capable of.

He ignores the question. “I will build you a fire. Sort yourself out tonight. Tomorrow you are expected at House Fortemps. If you are not there before the midmorning bell I shall fetch you like wayward livestock.” He begins to smoothly wind his hair into a sort of bun on the crown of his head in preparation for sliding his helm back into place. That mask that protects him from the world. “I will honor Haurchefant by not allowing you to torture yourself into oblivion. If I discover that you are failing him in  _ any _ way woman, I will make certain that you regret it.”

With that, he vanishes into the trees leaving you with only your thoughts for company. You resume your vigil, and the tears continue to flow until dawn breaks over Coerthas once again. Slowly, stiffly, you rise and turn your face into the biting wind, the tracks of the last tears you will ever allow yourself drying on your cheeks. It was high time to return to Ishgard and those who needed you. An eternity of days stretched before you like a yawning chasm, and you would face them alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so difficult and so depressing and I cried and I'm sorry. I had to go make a G'raha sin eater alt to recover from this.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	8. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he discovered that she had volunteered to spend time with the children, G’raha Tia had been beside himself with excitement and immediately offered to clear his busy schedule to be her assistant. Experienced in childcare as she was, she knew better than to turn down an offer of help from any quarter and as it turned out, it had been a stroke of unparalleled genius. Children everywhere were absolutely besotted with him, and the children of the Crystarium were no exception: he played games, sang songs, made jokes, told stories, modeled flower crowns, and (showing his infinite patience) had submitted to being petted on his ears, tail, and crystalline arm as though he were a prize winning chocobo.

## Clamor

### 

Definition:  
1a : noisy shouting  
1b : a loud continuous noise  
2 : insistent public expression (as of support or protest)  


### 

No fewer than six seasons had passed since she had last spent a significant amount of time in the company of children. Longer still since she had helped her adopted mothers raise their clamor of kits in the Black Shroud. She had thought that dealing with children was a skill one could not forget, and she was right, but Stelmaria  _ did _ forget the sheer amount of patience required. As a result, her jaw fairly ached from the pressure of clenching her teeth together in what she hoped was a reasonable facsimile of a smile all day. 

What in seven hells had possessed her to accept the  _ opportunity _ to spend a full sun with the gaggle of children who used the Cabinet of Curiosities as their school, she would never know. The look of unbridled relief that passed over Moren’s face when she had told him she would be “happy to enrich the young ones” should have told her at a glance what she had gotten herself into. 

It was not that she didn’t  _ like _ children, far from it. All of what she found most stressful about them was not in any way their fault, but simply a part of being young: their terrible communication skills, their constant need for attention, their unrivaled ability to make messes and get into trouble… the  _ noise. _ One day, they would have to put all that aside and grow into respectable members of the Crystarium she knew, and she hoped she had done right by allowing them to indulge themselves in play with the Warrior of Darkness and the Crystal Exarch before that day came.

When he discovered that she had volunteered to spend time with the children, G’raha Tia had been beside himself with excitement and immediately offered to clear his busy schedule to be her assistant. Experienced in childcare as she was, she knew better than to turn down an offer of help from any quarter and as it turned out, it had been a stroke of unparalleled genius. Children everywhere were absolutely besotted with him, and the children of the Crystarium were no exception: he played games, sang songs, made jokes, told stories, modeled flower crowns, and (showing his  _ infinite _ patience) had submitted to being petted on his ears, tail, and crystalline arm as though he were a prize winning chocobo. Which meant that Stelmaria was stuck being the enforcer to his nurturer, but as usual they had been a good team. Except that her heart had clamored wildly against her ribs when she saw him so full of joy and peace in their innocent company, knowing that she would never be able to give him a child of their own.

So it was that later, as they shared a glass of wine and sat close together on an ancient couch crowded with his books and papers in the privacy of the Umbilicus, she felt an overwhelming urge to lay bare the truth of the matter. It seemed unfair to leave it any longer.

“I am barren.” She stares at the profile of his beautiful face, hearing her own blood rush loudly in her ears.

G’raha pauses, brows raised, midway through a sip of wine and fixes her with the one carmine eye she can see. “Barren?” The question is exceedingly gentle, as if he is afraid of startling her into bolting away.

“Yes. I cannot have children.” The staccato rhythm of her heart must be what is making her feel a  _ trifle _ faint, because she certainly hasn’t had enough wine for it to be the fault of alcohol.

“Ah.” He lowers his glass and looks carefully into her eyes, garnet meeting heliotrope and black. “Pray, how do you know? If you are comfortable with saying?” he asks, his face is polite though the cant of his silvering ears is inquisitive.

Stelmaria licks her lips and says a silent prayer to Menphina for strength before beginning, feeling unusually hesitant with him, “You remember how I told you that when I was a kit, in the West Shroud, my birth mother and siblings died of some unknown plague and I was taken in by my adopted mothers as a result?”

He nods and she continues, “Around the time I was seventeen, before Dalamud fell, a young Keeper man came to call on my mothers but they were too busy with kits and weren’t interested in him...but I felt that  _ now _ was as good a time as any for me...” She swallows and avoids his gaze studiously, not wanting to falter when this is a difficult story for her to share, the mostly healed over pain of that old failed relationship making it doubly so. 

“We courted and all that nonsense, then tried seriously for about six moons, which was as long as he could stay nearby. I never got pregnant,” she says, taking a slug of the rest of her wine and making a face before finishing quickly: “Later, when I joined the Gridanian Adventurer’s Guild I went to see a healer. He told me that the plague I survived as a kit had probably also made me barren. It’s apparently not all that uncommon and I am healthy otherwise just….” she trails off, lamely, feeling uncomfortably like she was digging her own grave.

“You are unable to have kits,” he finishes for her, softly. 

She gathers that he probably knows perfectly well that she left out  _ great _ swathes of this story, but he seems content to let it lie for the moment. Looking down into his glass and swirling the last of the wine around before downing it, he asks, “How do you feel about the matter?” 

She  _ feels _ as if she has completely lost control of this conversation, but if he would like to lead then so be it. 

“Truthfully, it’s not  _ so _ bad,” she allows as he gently takes her empty glass from her nerveless fingers. 

She begins to fidget with a loose thread on the sofa, staring at the pattern woven into it rather than at the man she is speaking with. “The adventurer’s life is not one I would wish on kits but I  _ would be _ rather loath to quit, being the Warrior of Light and all that.” 

Frowning and brows knitted, she recalls the awkward and lonely years before she joined the guild, “The alternative, a life with my adopted tribe, was part of what made me leave the Shroud in the first place. The Scions are the true family of my heart and I have found that I prefer creating peace with my hands and rapier over domesticity.” 

_ Hells just say it. _ “Creating a life could be a wonderful, beautiful thing… but it is probably better left to others.”  _ There, it’s out in the open now, _ she thinks with finality. It feels like the axe she can’t see is about to fall.

A moment of silence and then, “What do you know of the cards Sharlayan Astrolgians use?” he asks suddenly and she can sense his crimson eyes on her.

“Pardon?”

In spite of her discomfort, she can’t help but look at him fondly as his voice settles into the velvet tones he uses when a good lecture is coming on. His eyes shine and his ears and tail become even more expressive as he begins, “Astrologian cards  _ may _ be used to foretell the future,  _ supposedly _ , but there is a small school of thought that uses them as a means to relate the life journey of the soul through  _ archetypes. _ ” 

He sees her watching and sets aside his own wine glass to lean forward and take her small, calloused sword hand in his larger crystalline one, “The cards I am thinking of in particular are The Empress and The Magician: The Empress represents physical fertility, of Hydaelyn but also of us as Her children--The Magician however, is a fertility of the mind and hands.  _ Different _ but also  _ valid. _ Some may choose to do both in varying amounts, or neither: You were not able to choose it for yourself, but your path is that of The Magician. I feel that it suits you very well indeed, my love.” 

The smile on his face makes her whole body feel warm, both with love and with shame, “I am glad you feel that way  _ Archon _ G’raha Tia, but I fear I am a disappointment to you all the same.” Her attempt at levity disguising eyes burning with incipient tears.

He sighs deeply, “Stelmaria. What made you think I wanted kits?” 

Color rises in her cheeks as she realizes they had never actually talked about it, she just assumed after what she had seen. “You looked so happy with the children today. Most men do in my experience, want children I mean. You aren’t disappointed?” She raises a brow at him and curls her tail inquisitively, hoping that she  _ looks _ less invested in his answer than she feels.

He raises the hand he is still holding to his lips briefly, his breath warm on her knuckles. Now he is the one who seems discomfited, “The thought of kits crossed my mind in my youth, of course, but in truth I thought you would be disappointed with  _ me. _ I have lived three hundred years Stelmaria, and while I slept some two hundred of those years I believe I am getting a bit  _ too _ old to be raising kits. I have had my fill of it in much the same way that you have with your adopted siblings.”

“Lyna, you mean?” she asks, thinking of the beautiful Viis woman he had raised as his own beloved grandchild.

“Yes,” he nods and his smile is full of nostalgia, “She is my joy and I treasure her, but I would not like another in all honesty.” 

His expression turns serious and his ears lay flat, “This is leaving aside the fact that I do not know if the blood of Allag  _ should _ be passed on again  _ at all. _ It has certainly caused the pair of us no shortage of woes. Mayhap it would be best to let it end when my time is done.”

She feels light and happy, the weight of her worries lifted, as always seemed to happen in his company. “I see,” she says and pushes him against the back of the couch then sits on his lap, pinning him between her thighs with a smile and a flash of fangs. 

“Oh, do you?” He is instantly playful, all wiggling ears and twinkling scarlet eyes. His hands trace slowly up her thighs, then her hips and ribs, before moving to her back and pulling her into a long lingering kiss that sets fire to her blood. Suddenly filled with a blinding need for him to consume her, she fists her hands in his hair and grinds her hips downwards on him, making him groan into her mouth with his own desire. 

The playful man is gone, replaced with a creature of raw frenzy who grips her thighs hard enough to leave bruises and stands, lifting them both off the couch in one motion. He walks into the small bedroom off the Ocular as his hungry mouth finds the clamoring pulse at her throat, leaving a blossoming mark there. Tossing her onto the bed carelessly, he pulls his robes over his head with one hand and pauses to take in the sight of his Warrior, deliciously disheveled, before joining her.

Much later he purrs in his sleep, his tail laid possessively across her thigh while she is languid and safe in the circle of his arms. She wonders what possessed her to ever doubt his feelings. Red and silver ears flickering, he stirs slightly and whispers her name into her hair before settling back into sleep. 

Smiling gently into the soft blue glow of the quiet room, she thinks of how he had been prepared to die for her, and no doubt still would if necessary. Not that she would let that happen. He had lived three hundred years, made a devil’s bargain with the Crystal Tower, and bent time and space just for a chance to see her again--to save her life and the lives of millions he had never known and would never know. His devotion to her was as deep as the sea and dependable as the tides. 

  
_ Menphina, I swear to You that I will not doubt him again. My thanks for this gift.  _ With that, she drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how long this ended up being, but I'm glad I got some major Stelmaria development done.
> 
> >writes story centered on children  
> >adds sex
> 
> I apologize.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	9. Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the age of 24 and a distinguished Archon in his field, he felt he should be above such base things as sexual frustration, but that was obviously not the case. He’d had lovers before, even relationships that at the time had seemed all-consuming, but no one else had ever caused him to react to their mere presence like a lascivious juvenile just discovering sex.

## Lush

Definition:  
1 : growing vigorously especially with luxuriant foliage ; lavishly productive: FERTILE, THRIVING, PLENTIFUL, PROSPEROUS, PROFITABLE  
2 : appealing to the senses: SAVORY, DELICIOUS, OPULENT, SUMPTUOUS  
3 : (slang) intoxicating liquor ; a habitual heavy drinker : DRUNKARD

The Labyrinth of the Ancients had finally been opened and cleared, bringing the Archon G’raha Tia one step closer to fulfilling the only wish he’d had nearly every day he could remember of his twenty and four summers: personally studying and cataloging every square ilm of the greatest of all Allagan relics.

Though if he were being completely honest, he had been rather less occupied of late with Allag and its’ history and more with the adventurer who had made it all possible: Stelmaria Meioh, _Warrior of Light and Defender of Eorzea,_ though she had told him with a sparkling laugh that she much preferred the lesser title of _Imperial Nuisance_ . He had been further surprised to discover that _Meioh_ wasn’t even really her surname, just a word from far off Hingashi she had learned from another adventurer and decided would lend her a certain air of _mystery._

“My real name is Stelmaria _Molkot._ It’s my adopted family’s name,” she had whispered conspiratorially into his ear, leaning so close that her breasts rubbed against his arm. The smell of her lavender, rosemary, and orange blossom perfume mixed with the scent of her skin and the sweet wine he had bought her as a pretense to ‘get to know a colleague’ was burned indelibly into his brain from that moment onward. Alone in his tent later that same evening, he came into his hand with such force that he feared for a moment he had gone blind. While his vision returned immediately of course, the shame he felt afterward was not so easy to dispel.

That had been the first time he had taken himself in hand and thought of her, and it was proving very difficult to stop _indulging_ now that the chocobos were out of the pen, so to speak. At the age of 24 and a distinguished Archon in his field, he felt he should be above such base things as _sexual frustration_ , but that was obviously not the case. He’d had lovers before, even relationships that at the time had seemed all-consuming, but no one else had ever caused him to react to their mere _presence_ like a lascivious juvenile just discovering sex.

Before the Expedition continued on to Syrcus Tower, Cid and Rammbroes had jointly decided a celebration was in order, considering all that had so far been accomplished under the banner of NOAH. G’raha had been informed that he was expected to spend a long evening carousing at the Seventh Heaven with the group. The plan he had devised was to make an appearance and then slink back to his tent to finish the reports he had been ignoring in favor of mooning over the Warrior like a lovestruck kit.

_Then_ he heard that she was also expected to be at this little soiree and his schedule for the whole afternoon suddenly became clear until well into the small hours of the morning: This was his shining golden opportunity and he intended to seize it with both hands. He did not know what would happen, but he felt he needed to try _something_ or he would go mad with hunger for her. Better to be rejected outright than to regret what might have been.

However, the two shots of Qiqirn Firewater he’d had in quick succession with Biggs and Wedge had probably been a mistake. So too, had the Realm Reborn Red and the Blackbelly Whiskey he’d had ‘for courage’ before approaching her, but once she looked in his eyes he couldn’t think of anything else but how much more _intoxicating_ she was than any substance he’d ever had. There was nothing he would not give gladly to put his mouth all over her perfect skin with reckless abandon, just once. 

Perhaps being drunk was helping him to be charmingly sauve rather than a bumbling arse because she was laughing at his jokes, gasping at all the right moments during his stories, and didn’t seem interested in talking to anyone else. Granted, she had also been drinking, but she _seemed_ far more in control of herself than he felt. He took it as an even better sign when she agreed to accompany him back to St. Coinach’s to share some of the Ishgardian Brandy he had been saving for a special occasion. 

They had returned to St. Coinach’s arm in arm, breathlessly singing an old Lominsan pirating shanty at the tops of their lungs, to discover that everyone else was still in Revenant's Toll. 

______________________________

She is still humming by the fire even now as he stumbles into his tent to breathe deeply in a fruitless attempt to calm himself, before retrieving the brandy from where he had hidden it along with two glasses. When he steps back out, she suddenly says, “Let’s play Never Have I Ever,” and his heart leaps into his throat.

“If you like,” he says rather smoothly, considering the jangling of his nerves, as he joins her on a blanket spread before the fire and hands her an empty glass.

She takes the bottle from him, opens it, and pours herself a generous measure, before handing him the bottle so he can do the same, ”I’ll start off easy. I am a virgin,” she says and takes a small sip without hesitation. Her eyes glitter in the firelight, and she waits for him to speak in the same quiet way that predators do when they sense their meal faltering toward them.

_By the Twelve, she plays dirty._ The grin she is giving him makes his bones jelly, but he still drinks as well and responds, ”I don’t have a crush on anyone in NOAH.”

He must have gone mad to say such a thing, but then she drinks and looks him full in the face, her tail swaying back and forth behind her, ears piqued. The rules dictate that he should drink too, and he does, but he feels like he is winning overall. Briefly, he wonders if he would be doing so well for himself without the drinking, but decides it didn’t really matter at this point.

“I have never pleasured myself while thinking of someone in NOAH.”

_Shite._ Was it possible that she knew? Or had guessed? Was he that obvious? There is nothing for it now but to lay his cards on the table. He drinks deeply, then lowers his glass to discover that she had drank as well.

He does not think. He does not ask permission. He simply surges across the short distance between them to put his mouth on hers. She opens to him and he drinks in her moans as he runs his tongue, then his teeth across her bottom lip. He can taste the brandy she has been drinking and the aether hovering in the air around them. Everything about being so close to her is _exhilarating_ and he needs to touch her--wants to get lost in pleasuring every ilm of her--

He stops himself then, pulling away to look at her flushed face. Garnet and emerald eyes gone dark with desire meet the pure amethyst of dusk and the obsidian of midnight, “I need to know that this is what you really want, Stelmaria. I need you to _say it._ ”

“I need you to fuck me G’raha.”

They don’t even make it to the back corner of his tent where he had piled cushions and blankets to serve as a bed. She kneels directly on the floor, just inside the entrance of the tent, undoes his trousers with a practiced hand and takes him fully into her mouth. The warm, wet feeling of her lips and tongue running along the swollen length of him, her hands moving up under the loose edge of his tunic to scratch her nails across his chest and stomach was _so much better_ than anything he had ever concocted in his hormone-addled fantasies. It felt like both an eternity and no time at all with their moans and the profane sounds of her mouth and hands sliding over his fullness being the only music in existence. Then suddenly, his breath hitches in surprise and he comes so hard it is all he can do to keep himself upright, much less warn her.

“Sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed.

She is silent, but swallows pointedly once his eyes focus on her. His mind disintegrates into a billion scintillating pieces, every one composed solely of his need to claim her, to pleasure her until she screams.

With a growl, he brings her to her feet roughly and kisses her again. Tasting himself in her mouth sends him even further down the road to a mindless frenzy he did not believe himself capable of. Kicking his boots off, he hooks both thumbs into the waist of her bottoms and pulls everything down at once. She shrieks in surprise, tail thrashing and face _finally_ flushing, but he has no time for her discomfort. He tumbles her into his makeshift nest face up then swiftly removes his bracers and shirt as he kneels between her bent legs as though in worship. _Mayhap it is,_ he thinks, and he lays down fully on his belly to wrap his arms around her thighs and pull her onto his face. Gasping, she says his name over and over as if in prayer, while he works his tongue up her cleft in one long, languid stroke before closing his mouth over her pearl and _sucking_ with relish.

The smell of her perfume, the taste of her flesh, and the involuntary trembling in her thighs as they brush his ears is absolutely _mesmerising._ Now that he is having her, his only coherent thought is that he wants more. Everything. Now. He had fantasized about taking her slowly, to savor every moment of the experience, but her writhing beneath his touch is driving him completely out of his mind.

Ruthless, he slides two fingers into her repeatedly while he continues to maneuver his tongue over her apex. When he curls his fingers upward inside her she comes unraveled with a wordless cry instantly, pressing herself harder into his mouth and curling her fingers tightly in his hair. He had thought he was lost before but now he is truly adrift in a sea of heedless instinct.

Feeling desperate with lust, he returns to his knees to shove himself into the unrelenting heat of her. She inhales sharply and shows her fangs at the sensation before struggling to pull her shirt and bralette over her head. He laughs a little and helps her, causing her to giggle in kind and the fog lifts for a moment. The sight of her blushing, her hair completely disheveled, mouth swollen, and small body helpless beneath him makes his heart ache and the _frenzy_ descend on his brain again.

“G’raha? Are you feeling alright?” Rammbroes’ voice sounds unexpectedly from beyond the tent flap. They both freeze, mid-stroke, eyes going wide in shock. The others must have returned from Revenant’s Toll and were now all filing off to bed in anticipation of tomorrow’s hangover.

He recovers quickly and calls out, “Yes. Just a little too much to drink I’m afraid. I came back early to sleep it off. I will see you in the morning?” 

Unable to help himself he pulls part way out, then slowly sheathes himself in her again, while he waits for an answer. Her eyes go wild and she wraps her legs around his middle as she _hisses_ with pleasure, but he kisses her fiercely to muffle the sound of it.

“I see. Only there is this bottle of brandy and some glasses by the fire and I thought it might be yours?”

_Shite._

“If you could just leave them outside the door there I can handle it in the _morning--_ ” he groans as she rocks her hips beneath him on purpose, clearly unhappy that his attention is not on her. She ghosts her hands over every ilm of him she can reach and he feels as though he might burst into flames. 

“Are you sure you are well G’raha?”

“Yes, thank you. Just need to sleep. Goodnight! ” He does not hear if Rammbroes says anything after that, already lost to the rhythm of pumping his hips into her again and again. His fingers find the swollen nub at her apex and he rubs in time with his thrusts. He can feel his release coming quickly and on pure instinct he fists his other hand in her hair, pulls her head to one side, and bites down hard on the soft flesh where her throat meets her shoulder.

Her body and legs clench around him wildly as she bites him in return to keep from crying out. Her fangs sink deep enough to draw blood but he does not care. Her release sends him over the edge growling like a fiend and he keeps going mindlessly with his teeth on her shoulder until he physically cannot any more. She takes her fangs slowly out of his skin as he lies down next to her and pulls her into a loose embrace. 

Instantly, they are asleep. Consequences can be dealt with tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We explicit now ya'll. Consent is sexy.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	10. Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes she felt that no matter how far she might run she would never be able to get away from duty. Being the Warrior of Light and Darkness was a fine thing in theory: Rescue the handsome Miqo'te prince, save the star and the shards, be beloved by all, get free drinks, etc., etc.
> 
> In practice, she was more like an unappreciated servant or perhaps an agony aunt. People availed themselves of her services for absolutely everything, whether they really needed her particular expertise or not; but she just couldn’t stand the thought of letting them down.

## Avail

### 

Definition:  
1 : to be of use or advantage : SERVE  
2 : to produce or result in as a benefit or advantage : GAIN  


### 

Sometimes she felt that no matter how far she might run she would never be able to get away from duty. Being the Warrior of Light and Darkness was a fine thing in  _ theory _ : Rescue the handsome Miqo'te prince, save the star and the shards, be beloved by all, get free drinks, etc., etc.

In  _ practice, _ she was more like an unappreciated servant or perhaps an agony aunt. People availed themselves of her services for  _ absolutely everything, _ whether they really needed her particular expertise or not; but she just couldn’t stand the thought of letting them down.

“Warrior, will you save my pet direwolf? I can pay you 10 gil.”  _ That direwolf did not need saving, it was easily twice my size. _

“Warrior, I forgot to take this package to my grandmother. Could I trust you with it?”  _ Granny was lovely actually, and I got some warm cookies out of it. _

“Warrior, please escort me across all of Amh Areng? You can have the rest of this mushloaf, I am full.”  _ Groan. Also, ewwww. _

“Warrior, I think my boyfriend is cheating on me. What should I do?”  _ I thought making a fist and punching my other hand was pretty self-explanatory but oh well. _

It had been a very long day of very long chores and she was tired and lonely in her room at the Pendants. She was hungry too, but she didn’t dare leave knowing that someone would drag her into something-or-other and she just  _ couldn’t _ right now _. _ She couldn’t be arsed to get up and use her kitchen to feed herself either. Frankly, the plan was to spend the next couple of bells moping hungrily then go to bed early. 

_ Today would not have been so bad,  _ she thought,  _ if G’raha had been able to come like he’d planned. _

“Something urgent has come up with the Eulmorans, darling. My presence will be required all day, and possibly all night by the sound of it. I am sorry, but I will try to make it up to you,” he had said morosely, looking as unhappy as she felt--his eyes downcast and ears drooping.

She had smiled and kissed him and sent him on his way, of course. What else was she to do? He had duties of his own as leader of the Crystarium and Master of the Crystal Tower; but it was still hard for her. Stelmaria Meioh was a true glutton: for sweets, for drink, for comfort, for adulation, but  _ most especially _ for his love and attention. 

Not that she had ever  _ told _ him that she  _ loved _ him. Of course she loved him--she had for years, even before he sealed himself away--but it had not been said. In Mor Dhona, she was young and stupid and thought there was time enough for all that, until there wasn’t. After Amaurot, she was unhappy with his secrets and she needed more time to forgive him  _ before _ she could decide how she felt about anything. Still, it had not been said.

There is a soft knock at the door, startling her from her thoughts, and she feels a momentary clutch of panic. Ridiculously, she thinks about hiding under her bed before she gets up, feeling like she’d gone another round with Wheelie Titan, and goes to see who it is anyway. It would be impossible to avoid whatever it was so she may as well just get it over with.

It is G’raha Tia; his face beaming like the sun and carrying a laden basket over his arm.

She moves quickly aside to let him in, “I thought you were going to be in Eulmore for ages?” she asks, incredulous, closing the door behind him.

Russet ears bouncing, he gives a musical laugh as he sets the basket on the table and explains, ”By the time I arrived Dulia had already talked Chai-Nuzz down off his ledge. I  _ did _ wait for some time to be sure they didn’t actually need me before I managed to slip away.”

He comes close to kiss her gently on the forehead and she can feel his breath, warm against her skin, “I brought some things to make dinner and  _ do _ feel free to avail yourself of the wine; I’m sure you’ve had a long day and you probably need it. Pray, tell me the worst of it first--did you have to make an emergency delivery of homemade eel pie? Or mayhap you  _ wrangled dodos _ again?”

Chuckling, he turns away to busy himself in the kitchen but on impulse, she catches his crystalline hand and holds it tightly. Looking back he asks, ”What is it, beloved?” all devastating beauty and joyful smiles and sparkling ruby eyes.

She finds that she has been struck dumb by his magnificence. The afternoon sun is slanting through the window of her flat, wreathing him in a halo of resplendent light. His red hair becomes a living flame while the golden-veined crystal of him fairly glows, throwing scintillating rainbows across the walls. He is the most dazzling thing she has ever seen and this god among men has come to  _ cook her dinner _ and then he will sit at her plain table to  _ laugh at her stupid jokes. _ The sheer insanity of it is hopelessly endearing and she rushes forward, heart leaping into her throat, to fist her hands in his hair and kiss him soundly on the mouth. His arms circle her waist and he sighs sweetly into the kiss--she was not the only one who was lonely today.

“What is it, really?” he asks again when it is over, his lips slightly swollen now but the line of them filled with laughter all the same.

“You are just... How did this happen? How are we so lucky?” she tries desperately to find the words to explain how wonderful he is, how wonderful it is to be with him, and fails--but he seems to understand what she meant. He always understands.

“Because I took my destiny into my own hands--and because I love you, Stelmaria,” he says simply, as though three hundred years of waiting was nothing at all.

“...I love you too, Raha.” 

An involuntary gasp as his hands gather the material of her dress to pull her so close that it feels as though she might disappear into him. His soft lips find hers again and she thinks he might be crying tears of joy, or perhaps she is. Running a silken ear between her fingers, she says it once more into his mouth just to feel him shudder against her. 

For a long moment they are the only two people on the whole of the star, duties forgotten; the only marker of the passage of time, the beating of their hearts.

“You’d better open the wine,” he purrs against her cheek while his hands rub her lower back, “I'll need some of it to cook dinner.”

She snorts as she pushes him away, then pats him on the bottom as he strolls back into her kitchen--a wide grin on his own lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brush your teeth after you finish this. I don't want you to get any cavities.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I beg your pardon?!” Thancred’s shocked voice rose easily over the lunchtime din at the Rising Stones.
> 
> “Please, please, please would you keep your voice down?“ Stelmaria moans in pain and shame. 
> 
> Pain, because she was still nursing the remnants of a hangover and the volume of his voice made her brain ricochet around the inside of her skull. Shame, because it looked like now that Thancred knew she had slept with G’raha Tia--everyone would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sequel to Day 9 - Lush. 
> 
> Explicit.

## Ultracrepidarian

Definition:  
One who is presumptuous and offers advice or opinions beyond one’s sphere of knowledge  


“I beg your pardon?!” Thancred’s shocked voice rose _easily_ over the lunchtime din at the Rising Stones.

“Please, _please,_ please would you keep your voice down?“ Stelmaria moans in pain and shame. 

Pain, because she was _still_ nursing the remnants of a hangover and the volume of his voice made her brain ricochet around the inside of her skull. Shame, because it looked like now that Thancred knew she had slept with G’raha Tia-- _everyone would._

She and G’raha had spent the night and the bulk of the morning together in his tent, naked of course. Most of that time had been used in exploration of each other’s bodies with mouths and hands, akin to memorizing the cartography of an exciting new continent, bringing each other repeatedly to release. The rest of the time had been spent in quiet talk about whatever came to mind.

While an excellent way to while away no few bells, the experience had left her feeling rather _confused._ She had made what felt like empty excuses about ‘Scion work to be done’ to G’raha and returned to the Rising Stones hoping to see Y’shtola, since they were alike in age and both miqo'te. Unfortunately, she had been cornered instead by Thancred, who with his usual roguish tricks soon had the whole sordid tale out of her.

“I knew he had designs on you from the moment I laid eyes on him. What will you do when he goes back to Sharlayan?” and the line of his lips is one degree shy of an _insufferable_ smirk.

She feels that he is being awfully ultracrepidarian about the situation, and opens her mouth to say so when she is interrupted by a barking laugh and a succinct, “Thancred, your jealousy is _unbecoming._ ”

_Praise the Twelve._

Thancred does his best impression of a freshly landed Ilsabardian bass before sputtering, “ _Jealous?_ Don't be ridiculous Y’shtola, I am merely concerned for the emotional wellbeing of a friend and colleague...”

Stelmaria’s face tells Y’shtola everything she needs to know.

“Your opinion on these matters is not required,” Y’shtola says, in a tone that could cut diamonds, “Pray, leave us.”

Knowing better than to argue, Thancred gives a mocking salute and saunters away. Y'shtola then sits primly in his recently vacated chair, a steaming cup of tea in her hands and her teal eyes bright with mirth.

“He _is_ jealous, you know. Not _terribly_ jealous but it is there. It seems the one tumble you had with him has been difficult to forget,” Y’shtola has a sip of her tea as Stelmaria struggles to recall what _tumble_ she is talking about.

Oh. _Oh._

It had been _very_ early into her career with the Scions and they had gone out for drinks as a group. However, by the end of the evening she and Thancred had been _thoroughly stewed_ and one thing led to another--as it so often does. It had been a fun time, yes, but in her opinion Thancred meant more to her as a friend than as a lover. He had _seemed_ fine with that arrangement but--

Y’shtola seemed to be able to hear her thoughts, “Don’t worry about him. Things are better this way and he knows it,” Her expression turns inquisitive, “Who exactly will be returning to Sharlayan? Is it the Seeker I can smell all over you?”

Flushing, because of course Y’shtola knows-- _she is a miqo'te,_ Stelmaria tells the story again. A little more openly this time, considering the change in audience. Y’shtola is a good listener, and allows the other woman to speak until the well runs dry.

In a strange coincidence, Y’shtola knew of G’raha already through Minfilia, and the Antecedent’s friend Krile: “To tell you truthfully if the world was different and we Scions were not so in demand, Minfilia and Krile would have happily played matchmaker. Like a pair of aunties, those two. Of course, now that you are together, there is no need for it. In any case, from what I have heard he seems a good fit for you: a little _eccentric_ perhaps, but harmless enough,” she frowns into her empty teacup and looks across the room to see if there is more tea available.

Disappointed with the tea situation, she looks at her companion again, expression turning coy, “Though I do not think you wish for me to _congratulate_ you on your choice of mate? Admittedly, I know very little of the customs of Keepers.”

“ _Mate?_ Oh no, I don’t think so,” Stelmaria feels overwarm suddenly all the way to the tips of her ears, thinking of all the marks on her flesh from fingers and teeth, “I don’t believe it’s as serious as all that. I just worry about getting too attached...” she chews her lip thoughtfully.

Y’shtola leans forward conspiratorially, and Stelmaria feels distinctly like a small kit being humored by an older sibling, “At the risk of tipping into ultracrepidarianism, mayhap you _should_ get attached? A Scion’s life is a difficult one, as you know very well. We should take our pleasures where we can find them and live without regrets. How else could we be expected to cope with the things we have seen and done?”

Consolingly, Y’shtola reaches out and pats the back of the other woman’s hand, ”May we ever walk in the light of the Crystal,” she says with just a _touch_ of sarcasm.

At that moment, Tataru brings in a fresh pot of tea and the other miqo'te woman heads after it, saying only, “Pray, excuse me,” and leaving Stelmaria to her thoughts.

______________________________

It is full night when Stelmaria returns to St. Coinach’s and finds herself standing outside the tent where she had whiled away most of the last sun.

Pulling aside the flap, she discovers G’raha Tia curled on his side asleep in a nest of pillows, his red tail flopped over his legs and clad only in smallclothes. He had been reading and the book still lay open beside him, candlelight flickering over its pages and causing his unbound hair to glow like burnished copper. The mark of her fangs is clearly visible on his shoulder and the realization centers her heartbeat between her legs.

Reasoning gone, she shucks off all her clothes and rolls him onto his back before sitting on his lap. He wakes mid-turn with a snort and a muzzy, “Hello?” before groaning at the naked weight of her on his crotch, “Stelmaria? Wha--?”

Her tongue in his mouth makes him quite compliant, as she discovered during last night’s exertions. So too does snaking her hand down the front of his smallclothes to wrap her fingers tightly around the length of him--and _stroking_. He shudders and moans against her lips, eyes closing and hips bucking, hands frantic to remove any barrier between him and her intense warmth.

When he succeeds, with her help, she wastes no time in taking him all the way to the hilt with a clipped noise of satisfaction. She starts to swivel her hips hard with fangs bared and watches his face closely as he whispers her name again, mismatched eyes fluttering open now and his skin beautifully flushed in the close half-light. Keening softly in the back of his throat, he runs his hands slowly over her breasts, rolling her nipples in his fingers before settling bruising fingertips at her hips. Quickly, he finds his own rhythm, thrusting upward into her tight heat as she grinds ferociously down on him, her mind empty of anything save uncomplicated _want._

“Wait,” he sits up suddenly and gently brings her close against him, his breathing hard, “Give me a moment.”

She stops moving, and cards her fingers through the silken hair at his nape, “What is it?” she asks, a little dazedly. 

He looks at her softly as his mouth grazes across her shoulder, where the bite from the previous night still lingered and probably would for several days yet, “I wanted to touch you more, before--”

He does not elaborate but his hands, calloused from years with bow and quill, rasp across her back and squeeze the curve of her bottom. Her eyes close in quiet pleasure as his lips tattoo a line of fire along the edge of her jaw, down the length of her neck, and across a smooth clavicle before taking the fullness of a breast into his mouth. The sheer heat of him sends a jolt of pure levin up her spine and she rocks her hips into him, making him purr with desire.

“G’raha--I want.... Please,” she feels breathless with _insanity._

A deep chuckle before raising his tawny head to graze teeth at her sensitive throat, breath warm, “At this juncture, I do think we are close enough for you to call me Raha.”

She is quickly tilted backwards onto the pillows as he rises over her, placing one long leg over his shoulder before thrusting into her deeply with a smooth snap of his hips. Her hands fly to her mouth to muffle her cries as the feeling of him sliding in and out of her body inexorably takes her right back to that precipice in an instant. He peppers kisses like embers falling from an open fire over her lifted ankle while his other hand moves to brush small circles over her apex with his thumb. It only takes a few more moments before she begins to tighten around him, heart racing--

“Raha--,” is all she can manage to gasp through her fingers before her mind shatters into blank whiteness: back arching, toes curling, skin flushing across her breasts and face. 

She knows he is watching her attentively and that her release will bring his. It does, and his carmine and emerald eyes close in shivering open-mouthed ecstasy, delicate copper lashes brushing her ankle, before he gingerly joins her among the pillows, a little winded.

“What was all that about anyway? Not to _complain,_ of course--,” his russet ears swivel towards her with interest and his Allagan eye is the color of mulled wine in the candlelight, “I just didn’t expect you to return so soon after you left in such a _rush_ this morning.”

Soft, full lips trace the mark on her shoulder again and she struggles to put a sentence together through the distraction, “Y'shtola told me I should take pleasure where I find it, things being the way they are. I thought I should take her advice.”

The line of his mouth against her shoulder quirks into a lopsided grin, complementing the curl of his tail and the newly mischievous cant of his ears, ”It does strike me as _particularly good_ advice.” 

  
He angles away, lean muscles moving gracefully under gloriously flushed skin, and takes her hand to kiss her knuckles with intent, eyes sparkling like jewels, ”Very well. Allow me to re-introduce myself then: the Archon G’raha Tia, _at your pleasure._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sin eater name would be Forgiven Thirst.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G’raha Tia sits behind his crowded desk, and the fatigue is obvious in every line of his face. His skin is paler than usual, in striking contrast to the blue of the crystal, and the shadows under his eyes have their own shadows. He does not greet her with his usual enthusiasm, instead offering simply: “Stelmaria, if you do not mind, I am a trifle busy at the moment. Mayhap you could return at some other time?”
> 
> He smiles tightly at her, and it does not reach his eyes. It is obvious that he is also aware of the coming disagreement.

## Tooth and Nail

Definition:  
With every available means : ALL OUT

The heels of her boots click with every step across the crystal floors as she moves with purpose through the halls of the Crystal Tower--straight towards the door of the Umbilicus. At the threshold she pauses for a moment, steeling her resolve before raising a hand to knock sharply.

Silence. 

A heartbeat. 

Another. 

Another. 

She sighs and knocks again, louder this time. Lyna was right to call for her but it is a pity she would not be able to unwind just yet after her trip to the Source.

Finally, a deep sigh, “Come in.”

The voice from the other side sounds as though it has not been used in some time: brittle and reedy. Bracing for the inevitable argument, she places the calloused palm of her sword hand on the door and slowly pushes it open.

G’raha Tia sits behind his crowded desk, and the fatigue is obvious in every line of his face. His skin is paler than usual, in striking contrast to the blue of the crystal, and the shadows under his eyes have their own shadows. He does not greet her with his usual enthusiasm, instead offering simply: “Stelmaria, if you do not mind, I am a trifle busy at the moment. Mayhap you could return at some other time?”

He smiles tightly at her, and it does not reach his eyes. It is obvious that he is also aware of the coming disagreement.

She readies for battle then and shuts the door behind her with a definite snap.

“I think not. Now is the perfect time.” Rapid footsteps and a swish of skirts bring her to stand solidly in front of the desk. 

His eyes drop to his workspace and he begins to shuffle papers around, ignoring her presence. A little blaze of fury lights in her chest but she manages to carefully subdue it to embers. She knows  _ exactly _ why he is doing this, and she has a great deal of sympathy for him--but it is still  _ irritating. _

“Raha, Lyna tells me you have left nearly every meal untouched for the past moon. I know that you do not require much sleep but by the look of you, you have gotten  _ precisely none _ of that as well. Am I simply unable to leave for the Source without returning to discover that you have completely  _ failed _ to care for yourself? When was the last time you even  _ left _ the Umbilicus?”

It is a mark of his overwhelming exhaustion that he  _ instantly _ becomes defensive, lips snarling, ears flat with emotion, voice rising and strained to breaking, “I do not have time for any of that. The Scions will  _ die _ if I do not solve this riddle, and I have wasted enough time as it is.”

Stelmaria allows the wave of his annoyance to wash over her. Her head tilts in a calculated manner as she asks pointedly, “What time has been wasted, exactly? Doing what?”

He will dodge the implication, she knows--and she is correct.

“If you care for the Scions as much as you say, you will leave me to my work,” his voice is dangerously edged, like a keen knife at her throat. She feels the prick of his words in her heart as well, and the anger flares again.

“The Scions are my  _ family _ and you know that I would do anything for them. There is no need for your rudeness,” she returns smoothly, quite proud of how her voice does not tremble in the slightest.

He chooses not to debate this and instead watches her pointedly with hooded ruby eyes, before turning his gaze back to the papers and books spread over every ilm of his desk.

She soldiers on as she feels tears starting at the corners of her eyes, ”Don’t be  _ angry _ with me. If there is anyone who understands how you feel it is me--but I need you to see how  _ hypocritical _ this is. You demand that  _ I _ rest constantly, yet you fail to do the same for yourself unless I fight with you tooth and nail. You are like a naughty kit trying to escape having his ears cleaned.”

The exasperation in her voice is plain.

“I am  _ not _ a kit, Stelmaria,” he says, coldly, opening a book a little too hard, the heavy cover slamming open onto the desk with a harsh clap.

“Then stop acting like one,” she snaps, giving in to her temper at last and swatting a trembling hand down over the page he is staring at resolutely but not actually seeing. 

At this, he lifts his eyes to hers with a sneer, purely to push her into acting badly, she knows--and he  _ very _ nearly succeeds. Would have, if not for the unbending will of the Warrior of Light.

The look she gives him in return is pained, and not a little contrite, “You have given  _ everything _ for the people of Norvrant, surely they will not begrudge you a  _ little _ rest?”

“I have not given everything-- _ not yet, _ ” he says under his breath. She does not hear.

Moving to stand close to his chair, she gently closes the book he had flung open and puts her fingers under his chin to tilt his face upward. Still, he will not meet her eyes-- _ stubborn to the last. _ “You know that the Scions do not wish you to destroy yourself to save them, and that  _ includes _ overwork. You cannot give that which you do not have, Raha.”

Finally he looks at her and his carmine eyes are soft, his ears pitched low in embarrassment. His anger has broken, leaving only the weariness behind. She moves her hand to the nape of his neck and pulls his head flat against her stomach, massaging his ear. His breath hitches, but he relaxes against her.

Battle won: she states the forfeit into the stillness, “I have already arranged with Lyna to hold everything for a full eight bells.” He rustles and grunts in protest, but she puts her arms around his shoulders and squeezes to silence him, “You do not have to  _ sleep, _ but I want you to at least  _ lie _ on your bed and be  _ quiet _ and  _ still _ for a full half a bell. If you fall asleep, so be it. If you do not fall asleep we can talk, or read  _ for leisure,  _ mind you--so long as you do not leave your bedroom.”

He manages dissent anyway, muffled by her dress, “I can not--”

“You shall, I’m afraid,” she responds bluntly, resuming her ministrations to his ear as a distraction.

Silence again for a long moment before he pulls away to rise from his desk and move towards his bedroom. He takes a few steps and then pauses, turning, his shoulders hunched, “Are you coming with me?” He sounds defeated and it pulls at her heart.

“Of course I am coming, but would you like to have a bath? Or something to eat?” Quickly, she crosses the space between them and takes the hand of crystal in both of hers.

“No. I just wish to get this over with,” she nods as they cross the Ocular and walk into the smaller room with his bed.

He lifts his robes carelessly over his head, whorls of crystal across his chest glimmering in the glow from the walls, and sits down in his smallclothes to remove the bindings on his arms. Kneeling, she helps with his sandals and takes the opportunity to rub his feet and ankles before he rolls into his bed with a tired sigh.

She removes her dress before joining him, pulling him gently to rest his head on her breast. His arms wind their way around her waist and he sighs again, breathing deeply of the scent of her skin. Humming tunelessly, she strokes his silken silvering hair away from his face then massages each russet ear gently from the base to the tip. 

The repeated movements of her hands relax him, but his mismatched arms around her middle tense, “I am sorry, darling, for my rudeness before. There is no excuse really--but things are moving so quickly at this juncture, I feel underprepared. Everything rests on how well I complete this work with Beq Lugg and I fear that this plan might not work and the Scions will be trapped to their death. There are so many things that could go wrong--” he sniffles a little, which she does not comment on. 

Kissing him between the ears, she chuckles, “I have  _ faith _ in you. I  _ trust _ you. I know that there is no one else who can solve this problem. We will all return home safely,  _ because _ you said we would. Simple,” she says with warmth and love in her voice. It is the unqualified truth.

He falls silent again, thinking, the occasional flutter of his scarlet ears in her hands the only sign that he is still awake.

  
Just before the full half bell has passed, he is finally asleep and peaceful, his brow smooth for once. She feels it is a good time to rest herself--there will be another battle when he wakes to find the full eight bells have passed quietly without  _ any _ input from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff for your tooth-rotting pleasure.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	13. Verbiage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One hundred years of lies and leadership have taught him to keep his face placid at all times, no matter what vile and bitter perversions swirl in his head. He employs this skill now with characteristic aplomb by asking calmly, for the Crystal Exarch is always calm, “Y’shtola how may I be of service? Know that I would be pleased to—“
> 
> “You are playing games with her life. She will not be able to survive the domination of the Light within her,” Y’shtola is not one to mince words; It is one of many reasons why she is so valued by the Scions who are her family.
> 
> It is why he sweats under the pressure of her regard now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verbiage was the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day for September 13, 2020.

## Verbiage

Definition:  
1 : a profusion of words usually of little or obscure content  
2 : manner of expressing oneself in words : diction  


_ Alphinaud: Exarch, you mustn't push yourself. Your time away from the tower has clearly taken its toll. _

_ Alphinaud: No doubt you all are tired as well, having traveled so far. Why don't we all take a much-needed rest before we discuss our findings? _

_ Y'shtola: I thought to propose the very same. After your clash with the Warden, you deserve a chance to recuperate. _

_ Thancred: It's settled, then. We reconvene after everyone has had time to settle in. _

_ ______________________________ _

The Warrior of Light had returned safely from Rak’tika with Urianger, Minfilia, Thancred, and Y’shtola all present and accounted for. A brief meeting on the Exedra, in front of the tower, had concluded with a suggestion of rest for all.

The Crystal Exarch could not agree more. Alphinaud was correct: time away from the tower was  _ difficult _ to say the least and made him feel a bone-deep weariness he had never experienced on the Source as a young man. This was to say nothing of the fainting spells that  _ always _ seemed to happen in the Warrior’s presence and the distaste he felt when forced to interact with Lord Vauthry.

He turned to leave, thoughts of a solitary respite in the Ocular foremost in his mind.

“Exarch, may I have a word?” Y’shtola’s cultured tones rang in his ears like lead.

_ Azeyma, Thaliak--pray, preserve me from the words of Y’shtola Rhul. _

“Of course Y’shtola. In the Ocular perhaps?” He is already sweating, a greasy layer between the skin of his back and the Allagan robes. It is not a good omen.

She nods briefly, fixing him with silver eyes that see nothing and too much at the same time.

______________________________

He felt marginally rejuvenated once within the comforting embrace of his tower, but Y’shtola’s penetrating gaze is proving difficult to withstand. Since he had called her to the First, the relationship between him and Y’shtola had been, in a word,  _ fraught.  _ They had reached the Ocular now, and she had done nothing but stare at him for several long moments. 

What she is trying to discern exactly, he could not say, but it left him feeling as though he did not measure up to her standards. Of course, her judgement was impeccable: nearly every word he said was a lie and had been for nigh on a century now. If one could have an entire verbiage composed solely of  _ riddles, _ he had surely achieved it.

Not that he was ashamed, far from it: every lie, every secret, every deflection had been to save them, but especially to save her--the Warrior. If it made him the villain in this tale, then so be it.

His currently raw nerves are not due to her unsavory opinion of him, no--it is because of his mixed feelings on discovery and the unraveling of all his plans. The Exarch fears discovery, quite rationally, but G’raha Tia  _ yearns _ for it irrationally. One touch made too familiar, one word spoken too warmly, and they would all know the truth of his identity and his feelings, but in exchange she would die and the Eighth Umbral Calamity would proceed apace.

Would it be worth the destruction of an entire world and the countless multitudes upon it for him to tell her that he loved her? Yes: there was no question.

_ He _ was the one who was not worth such a grandiose display.

One hundred years of lies and leadership have taught him to keep his face placid at all times, no matter what vile and bitter perversions swirl in his head. He employs this skill now with characteristic aplomb by asking calmly, for the Crystal Exarch is  _ always _ calm, “Y’shtola how may I be of service? Know that I would be pleased to—“

“You are playing games with her life. She will not be able to survive the domination of the Light within her,” Y’shtola is not one to mince words; It is one of many reasons why she is so valued by the Scions who are her family.

It is why he sweats under the pressure of her regard now.

“I have the utmost faith in the Warrior of Darkness,” a measured answer from a measured man, and as full of half-truths as he is.

“Faith? What does  _ faith _ have to do with anything? That poison within her will tear her apart, body and soul, and you stand there with that secret smile and tell me that you ‘have faith’,” she barks a hoarse laugh at him, but she is not amused.

Y’shtola’s milky eyes narrow with suspicion before she continues, “What is your  _ purpose _ here, Exarch? If I did not know better, I would say you were in love with her. Your aether  _ changes _ when she enters your presence.”

His heart thunders to a  _ stop. _

_ Of course _ Y’shtola would notice, she was unusually perceptive and loved the Warrior as well--they all did. He was becoming too much the old blunderingly obvious lovestruck fool G’raha Tia in her presence and it had been  _ observed. _ Yet another snag that he had not foreseen: how G’raha would be drawn to the Warrior as a moth is to a flame.

“If you love her, then why do you seem content to watch her be destroyed?” Y’shtola finishes her thought tartly, unaware of the raging maelstrom beneath the cowl.

_ She will not be destroyed. I will take her place. _

“Yes, I love her. We  _ all _ love her. That is why we must remember the feats of which she is capable, and support her as best we can,” and his mouth tastes foul at the kernel of truth buried under an avalanche of lies.

“She is not a  _ tool _ to be used by you. I will not allow it. Choose your next words very carefully Exarch,” her words are like ice, but he knows that she speaks with passion for someone dear to her.

He opens his mouth to offer her more words without any truth or meaning, his already raw nerves wearing dangerously thin, but is interrupted by a breathless Lyna, “Exarch, it is  _ urgent. _ A great host of Sin Eaters are moving to attack the Crystarium and the shield must be activated quickly.”

_ Praise the Twelve for small mercies _ , though he feels instantly guilty for being relieved of this interrogation when no few of his people will die tonight.

Y’shtola follows Lyna smartly out the door of the Ocular, “I will join the van. We will speak more on the morrow Exarch.”

He did not doubt it. The last ilm of her skirts swished out the door and he lowered his face to his hands, one a permanent reminder of just how far he was willing to go to save one woman--and allowed himself  _ one _ long, shuddering breath.

Then he straightens, leaving to find Alphinaud and prepare the shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm selling catboi sweat. It's a market that I feel could compete head-to-head with gamer girl bathwater.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	14. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together they were a sparkling maelstrom of pain as he struggled in vain to control the tether between them. On an eddy of power the cowl fell back and she saw the beautiful idiot face she knew so well, a jagged slash of crystal across one cheek, silver in his hair, but not a day older though an eternity of separation had passed for both of them.
> 
> This time she screamed his name, she begged for him to take her with him to the Rift, and she fought with all the fury she could gather but she was weak and tired from the burden of the Light. Even with him trying to part her from it, it was too much for the two of them to bear.
> 
> Hearing his name alone he became just G’raha Tia again, the turmoil of emotions writ plain in every line of him. He seemed shocked that she would remember, as if she had the luxury of forgetting.

## Part

Definition:  
1 : an essential portion or integral element  
2 : a vocal or instrumental line or melody in concerted music or in harmony ; a particular voice or instrument in concerted music  
3 : an actor's lines in a play, movie, etc. ; the role of a character in a play, movie, etc.  
4 : to become separated, detached, or broken  
5 : to relinquish possession or control

They had made love again that morning, because in truth that is what it was now although the words had not yet been said aloud. It had been slow and sweet and at the time, she had _thought_ it was because they survived an expedition to the World of Darkness by the skin of their teeth only the previous sun.

Later, she realized that he had desired a last memory to take with him, because it was all he could carry.

_“The tower may only be used once men rival the Allagans in knowledge. I will slumber within Syrcus Tower until then, to greet those with the means to open the gates. Then, I will guide them. And thus will the tower shine forth as the beacon of hope it was meant to be. 'Tis the only way to make the wishes of the ancients come true. The future is where my destiny awaits.”_

So _dramatic,_ as always--but the sad, serious tilt of his full mouth was disconcerting to her. _He cannot possibly be serious. Can he?_

_“And you, Stelmaria─I know history will remember you. No doubt your heroism will be the star by which I chart my course when I awake._

_Well, now I must rest. Recalling so much has put me in the mood for sleep. Farewell, my friends. I eagerly await a future born of your courage and the ancients' wish.”_

His lips were meant for smiles and games and soft, languid kisses--not to pierce the very soul of her with an icy brand. She had felt that he was talking directly to her, but they were certainly not the words that she had so dearly wanted to hear.

_“I love you.”_

_“I need you.”_

_“Stay with me, please.”_

She said nothing, and he did not speak again. Instead, she stared at his back while he turned away, his newly crimson eye fixing her over the beloved plane of his shoulder as the golden doors closed forever.

She did not scream nor did she cry, though she wanted to, but she knew that a part of her heart had been locked forever beyond the doors with him.

______________________________

A different nation, a different man, a different grief.

That morning had been hectic: plans frantically made with new allies from the Brume. There had been no time for sweet words then, or even an embrace in the rush to avert the fall of a nation.

They had saved Aymeric _and_ the nation, but Haurchefant had been impaled on Ser Zephirin’s spear.

A spear meant for her.

While he had died in Aymeric’s arms, his eyes then had been for her and her alone. He had been glad she was well. He had asked for forgiveness. He had told her to smile.

Then he had left her alone, and she was sundered anew. Her only comfort being that Haurchefant had gone to his grave knowing she had loved him. G’raha Tia did not even have that to bear him forward into the future gently.

Afterward, her spirit broken, she diminished into a need for vengeance and a desire to solve the next problem--any problem. Hydaelyn’s Chosen did not want to hear, feel, or think; She only wanted to act and _act quickly,_ before the jackals in the night could catch her.

______________________________

_“The combined power of every Lightwarden is too terrible a burden for any one soul to bear.”_

Someone had spoken but she couldn’t quite _hear_ over the white static in her brain, nor could she breathe with all the copper and glass in her lungs. Perhaps she was dying. Perhaps she should be frightened.

_“And so I shall relieve you of it. And thus... thus did I use you! ”_

The black and red and blue smear that stood before her smirked. _Oh gods that mouth._

Light flashed and a circle formed as a crackling spasm wracked her. She heard him gasp as he felt her pain through the link he had forged between them. The others began to argue amongst themselves but she saw nothing, heard nothing.

Save him--playing the part of the villain. He was _rubbish_ at it.

If she was not dying, she would have laughed. As it was, she was _terrified._ Everything had fallen into place and her suspicions were confirmed, but it was no longer a happy fantasy to bring comfort in the depths of loneliness. It was a waking nightmare from which she could not escape. One of them was about to die and she was certain that he meant for it to be him; to take her Light and fade out like a dying star somewhere far away where she could not even say goodbye.

_“At journey’s end, an opportunistic thief makes off with the hero’s prize. A paltry way to end a chapter, I concede. Yet your tale will continue, and my role in it will scarcely be remembered. Worry not. Whatever should become of me, I will be happy and free, safe in the knowledge that I have played my part.”_

She _yearned_ to go to him, but her shattered body would not obey her. Her hand reached out, begging for him to take her with him, wherever he is going.

Together they were a sparkling maelstrom of pain as he struggled in vain to control the tether between them. On an eddy of power the cowl fell back and she saw the beautiful idiot face she knew so well, a jagged slash of crystal across one cheek, silver in his hair, but not a day older though an eternity of separation had passed for both of them.

This time she _screamed_ his name, she _begged_ for him to take her with him to the Rift, and she fought with all the fury she could gather but she was _weak_ and _tired_ from the burden of the Light. Even with him trying to part her from it, it was too much for the two of them to bear.

Hearing his name alone he became _just_ G’raha Tia again, the turmoil of emotions writ plain in every line of him. He seemed shocked that she would remember, as if she had the _luxury of forgetting._

_“Thank you for fighting for this world, for believing,”_ a gravid pause and those ruby eyes fall before being lifted again, full of love--to meet hers, filled with dread, _“Fare you well, my friend--my inspiration.”_

A gunshot.

He slumped over bonelessly, face a mask of burning anguish and all she could see was _fury._

Emet-Selch took him away from her, when she had just found him again.

She decided then with her veins blazing molten Light, bones exploding into glittering agony, coughing scintillating sick onto Vauthry’s beautiful floor--that Emet-Selch would _die._

______________________________

_“Hm? Ah, before I began my slumber, you mean? Ha! It seems rather longer to me. But yes, what strange symmetry. This time, I break the seal, and I have no intention of locking myself away again. Nay, together we will enter, and together we will leave─in triumph. So come, my friend. Let us be about it!”_

He had lied to her again before they climbed the tower, but she did not think he had _meant_ it to be a lie. 

A lie all the same--they would not be leaving the tower together. 

She knew that he had a plan, and it would be _required_ for her to trust him implicitly. She _did_ trust him, but there was still a bright bloom of fear within her at the possibility of failure. Suddenly, she thought of Suzaku and the unbearable cruelty of an eternity without the one you loved. Tears sprang into her eyes and he saw them, _of course._

_“If I were to tell you that this isn’t the end--that we will meet again--would you believe me?”_

She did not trust herself to speak, she simply nodded and showed him the vessel he planned to use to come home with her--a curious joining of colors, like blood and bone. They joined hands over it briefly before he replaced the hood for the last time and rose unsteadily to his feet.

The end came quickly for him, as it had done with Haurchefant. When she kisses him one last time, he is already gone--soft lips made hard by cold, unyielding crystal and ruby eyes unseeing.

______________________________

Guydelot Thildonnet wrote a song for her as a gift, in recognition of her great deeds--so he had written in any case, in the letter he enclosed with the sheet music. The song was a ballad about her time with NOAH and the exploration of the Crystal Tower, and the companion she had loved and then lost.

The _companion_ she had recently re-arranged the song for, so that it was now a two-part harmony for tenor and soprano. The very same companion who was currently more interested in the lunch she had packed and frequently stealing kisses from her than in learning any lyrics.

A picnic was a _lovely_ way to spend an afternoon though, she agreed. 

He sighs heavily, eyes closed and stretched out on his back, a glory of obsidian and crimson, “Mor Dhona is not the most _romantic_ place to have a picnic you know.”

“Mor Dhona is where we first met,” she says simply from his side, more interested in tuning her disused old harp than engaging with foolish banter designed to tempt her into distraction.

Rolling onto his stomach to laugh boisterously, he is all boyish charm and twinkling carmine eyes as he says, “Darling, we met in the _Shroud._ How could your memory be slipping already? You are not yet twenty five summers--surely you cannot be so decrepit as me.”

She rolls her eyes at the thought of his body--all lean muscle under taut, warm flesh--ever being called _decrepit._ Taking a wedge of La Noscean orange from the basket she places it in his mouth with gentle fingers, partially to revel in the softness of his lips, but also _partially_ to make him be _quiet,_ “You did not actually bother to tell me your name until _after_ your games were over. When we were already in Mor Dhona.”

A flutter of russet ears as he muses and finishes his orange. “Ah yes, you are right. I had forgotten how much I teased you then,” he says, and while his tone is contrite he is obviously pleased that she remembers such a detail, even if it is a little embarrassing. He sits up and moves to kiss her again, and she obliges this time, harp finally tuned.

He draws back from her, his gaze dark with heat and he is a _magnificent_ thing indeed in all of his red, black, and blue--his mysterious birthright piercing the heavens just over his shoulder. The scene feels like a dream or a fairy tale, but it is not. 

She tells him so, and adds, “I fought my way into the tower and awakened my sleeping Allagan prince with a gift of crystal and a kiss of magic, but unlike most fairy tales that is the _beginning_ of the story rather than the end.”

Flushing to match his hair and ears back, this time in true embarrassment, he says quietly, ”Yes, it is just the beginning. You are the only one who could have made this reality, and the only person I wish to be the other half of my harmony.”

His words, though silly and sentimental, fill her with a boundless love that moves her to be reckless.

“Come with me. _Home_ to the Shroud--to meet my mothers and siblings,” she feels unusually fragile asking, but she should not have worried.

He is joy incarnate, simply a young man in love with a young woman, “Of course. When would you like to go on this new adventure, exactly?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost 1k hits, ya'll crazy thirsty.
> 
> It's why I love you <3
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G’raha Tia was not usually a jealous man. He knew that there had been lovers before they had met and more after he had gone to sleep. Doubtless she would have still more if they were to end what was between them now--but something about the thought of even a version of her from millenia past with Hades nearly debilitated him with envy. 
> 
> She is mine, and mine alone. 
> 
> Prior to receiving mastery of the tower from Unei and Doga, he had not ever felt a need to control others. It was simply not a part of his nature, or had not been at the time in any case. Now it most assuredly was, and found he needed to indulge himself occasionally in order to chase the shadows from his mind. He was not at all certain if it had blossomed with the gift of the blood of Allag, or if the blood had woken it within him. In truth, it did not matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Restraining, choking, masochism/sadism, and dom/sub mechanics. Just to let you know.
> 
> Explicit obviously.

## Ache

### 

Definition:  
1a : to suffer a usually dull persistent pain  
1b : to become distressed or disturbed (as with anxiety or regret)  
1c : to feel compassion  
2 : to experience a painful eagerness or yearning  


### 

He had spent most of the day quietly studying in his room at the Rising Stones and as a result of indulging in poor posture, he discovers a dull pain blooming across his neck and shoulders.

The discomfort is purely his own fault, but another phantom hurt had been awoken as well: centered around where Emet-Selch, or rather Hades, had shot him in a different body--on a different shard.

The time he had spent at the tender mercies of the Ascian in that ancient dead city--her city,  _ their  _ city--was a trial he had not been sure he would survive. The waves of pain from the wound in his back had been nothing compared to the scraped-out hollowness of being so far from his tower and his Warrior. That misery felt smaller still when Hades, in between bouts of beating him nearly senseless, had shown himself to be  _ particularly  _ talkative about personal troubles when he felt that his audience was near death. An audience that just so happened to be in love with the same woman as the Ascian.

Hades’ vaunted honesty now felt sickeningly  _ perverse  _ when he spoke about Stelmaria with the dulcet tones of great familiarity. As though he had known her, loved her,  _ lain  _ with her--under a different name and unsundered, yes--but still  _ her. _ The words fell from the Ascian’s lips and embedded like shards of heated glass into his heart with deadly heat and accuracy, in much the same way the bullet had ripped through him.

Words that now thunder in his head and turn his need for the woman he loves into a poison:

_ Azem the Wanderer. _

_ The Fourteenth Member of the Convocation. _

_ Emet-Selch’s lover. _

G’raha Tia was not usually a jealous man. He knew that there had been lovers before they had met and more after he had gone to sleep. Doubtless she would have  _ still  _ more if they were to end what was between them now--but something about the  _ thought _ of even a version of her from millenia past with  _ Hades  _ nearly debilitated him with envy. 

_ She is mine, and mine alone. _

Prior to receiving mastery of the tower from Unei and Doga, he had not  _ ever  _ felt a need to control others. It was simply not a part of his nature, or had not been at the time in any case. Now it most  _ assuredly  _ was, and found he needed to indulge himself occasionally in order to chase the shadows from his mind. He was not at all certain if it had blossomed with the gift of the blood of Allag, or if the blood had woken it within him. In truth, it did not matter.

He finds himself knocking quietly on her door and he can hear her shuffling around before she answers, eyes soft with sleep. Apparently it is a very late bell indeed and he had not noticed at all, being so wrapped up in  _ unpleasant  _ reminiscence. She must have gone to bed without him an age ago, thinking that he was working through the night and needed the quiet.

His heart aches fiercely both with love for her, and in greedy anticipation of what he is about to do to her.

Still, she does not complain at his sudden appearance and even opens her mouth to speak in what he assumes is welcome, but he kisses her instead with all of his three hundred and twenty four years of longing. 

Longing that turns with breathless rapidity into a need to  _ possess her utterly. _

She must have seen it in his eyes, as she quickly backs into her room to allow him to follow. He closes the door behind himself and locks it.

“With your permission,” he says, turning to show her the two lengths of soft leather he kept in a pocket, “I am asking darling, not commanding. Not yet,” he clarifies.

She looks at him thoughtfully, like she wants to ask what has tipped him into this, but he knows that she will not ask any questions--that is how this particular game works. In the end she nods, just once, and looks at him. Waiting.

“What is the word?” It would be the only time he asks gently this evening, everything else after will be a vicious demand when his blood is singing with the legacy of Allag.

“Rosemary,” she answers immediately, looking into his eyes but coloring slightly as her ears drop low to her head. Her gaze is filled with a complicated mixture of fear and desire.

_ Rosemary for remembrance, _ he realizes,  _ she knows exactly why this is happening. _ It is thrilling, to know that she answers his need for control so readily--needs it, aches for it even. However, within the structure of this game his control is an illusion: he will be the one to break feverishly against her iron will. They both desire this outcome.

Rules established, he begins simply: “Undress.”

She obeys instantly and his smile is feral. His ruby eyes sweep over her skin, scars and all, and is pleased to see that all the marks from the last time she indulged him like this have healed without a trace.  _ A clean canvas, _ he thinks, as he moves behind her to place her wrists together and uses one of the leather ties to bind them.

“Kneel,” he commands, and she complies while he walks around again to face her, the pulse in his throat wild. Suddenly, with the long-denied instincts of a nunh, he fists his hand in her hair, nails scratching her scalp, as his other hand frees his already hard cock and shoves it all the way to the hilt in her mouth. She appears perfectly still, gazing up to meet his eyes and waiting to be bidden, but her tongue is moving slowly along the sensitive underside of his length.

His breath is already coming in ragged gasps, heart rattling frantically against his ribs, but he denies himself for a long moment before his resolve shatters and he frantically fucks her face like a man possessed. She grunts and chokes on him but does not move an ilm until he moans and roughly pulls her away by the hair to spend himself on her breasts and face, his vision nearly blacking out and knees going weak at the sight of her debasement. He recovers quickly, and pulls his shirt off to lean down and clean her gently before kissing her bruised mouth like a savage, the scent of him on her skin as kindling to a spark.

“Stand up,” he bids her then, and watches carefully--lest she fall--as she rises slowly on legs obviously full of pins and needles from the pressure of her joints on the hard floor.

“Desk,” he says brusquely, though he is now calm once more as he finishes undressing. It is  _ tenuous  _ at best, and only lasts until she walks to the surface as directed to bend over it deliberately, legs spread--her eyes watching his face over her shoulder. His blood is roaring again.

“I did not yet tell you to bend over. Punishment,” he snarls, looping the leather strap in his hand and snapping it with force against her thigh. She shudders, eyes rolling back and closing against the raised red mark that appears, and he revels in the glory of spoiling her perfection for his own corruption.

He is on her again without any conscious realization of closing the distance, palming a breast roughly and rutting into her from behind sharply enough to make her yelp in surprise.

“No. Quiet,” and he marks her again with his fire, this time in a line across her back.

He did not truly care if anyone heard them, but the fever was upon him now and nothing in all the heavens or the hells could make him stop this debauchery save her express word. The word he knew she would not say.

She clenches around him tightly in answer to the punishment and he feels completely deranged with lust and power. He cannot see her face, pressed as it is against the wood of her desk but he can imagine it: tears in the corners of her eyes, lower lip caught in her teeth hard enough to draw blood, flushed from her breasts to her ears, fighting the jagged precipice of her own release. The thought of it nearly finishes him again.

Pulling out with an erotic pop, he shoves her harshly in the direction of the bed. She does trip a little this time, and he is ready to catch her if necessary, but she rights herself and then stands waiting for him.

He is careful as he undoes the bindings on her wrists, brushing his lips over the stripes before leading her to the bed. This time he lashes her to the stout timbers at the head--leaving enough lead to be able to flip her over on her stomach if he so wishes.

“You have been  _ very good _ so far,” he says, and his voice is like velvet to even his own ears. He runs the hand with the strap down her body and she shivers, gooseflesh under the tips of his fingers, “Tell me what you desire and I might see fit to grant it. Answer.”

“I want you to choke me,” she responds coolly, closing her eyes, and his mind becomes a screeching void, completely incoherent save the fulfillment of her request.

The fragile column of her neck fits so  _ beautifully  _ into his hand--as though it had been made to rest there--and he can feel the riot of her pulse like the wings of a captured morpho. He is rendered breathless with her trust and demented with his need but slowly,  _ carefully  _ he applies pressure to her throat, sliding inside the warmth of her as her legs come around his waist. The sensation awakens a primal feeling of  _ belonging  _ in him and he realizes anew that this woman is his. She would not open herself in this manner for any other.

He begins to thrust deeply with a measured rhythm so that he can fully concentrate on the pressure of his hand--too soft and she would not feel satisfied, too hard and she might be injured or die. There was only the briefest of moments before the first became the latter and the dance on the edge of a knife elated them both.

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheek and her mismatched eyes lock with his. She has the look of a prey animal being stalked and he answers with teeth and the nails of his free hand, leaving bites and bruises over every ilm of her flesh he can reach--driving himself against her with a sudden fury--the hand on her neck unrelenting. She gags and coughs and begins to convulse in orgasm when he suddenly picks up her tail from where it is flailing beside her and  _ pulls. _ The breaking of this taboo shatters her and she screams hoarsely around the pressure on her throat, rules forgotten, eyes rolling in her skull, and squeezing him so  _ tightly  _ that he knows he only has moments before he is flung over the edge of oblivion himself.

The pressure on her throat stops as he pulls her thighs from around him and pins them down to the bed, holding her open and at his mercy. Control finally broken, his entire existence narrows to only the pressure of her walls as he slides in and out, release intensely building to a taut coil of absolute delirium.

Until it snaps as though he had been hit with his own strap and he comes with a force that leaves him mindlessly repeating her name in his paroxysm of blinding madness.

Then it is over and he moves to free her from the leather, careful of the myriad welts and bruises. They lay holding each other in mutual relief as he rubs circles on the marks with his thumbs, feeling a little shame, but not  _ nearly  _ as much as he probably should. On the morrow, she will be stiff and sore, and she would not complain in the slightest. It was not her way and he loved her for it.

She grins at him widely then, showing fangs and moving to kiss his throat at the exact center of his tattoo, “Next time I believe it will be my turn to bind you.” 

Her voice is heavy with the delicious shadow of the threat she is making.

He did not think it would be possible to recover his breath and desire so quickly, but he was discovering that this new life with her was going to be full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I've done this.
> 
> Over 1k hits tho! *party*
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	16. Lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alisaie pauses in the middle of buttering a slice of toast to jab her knife at her twin brother, and asks, “Don’t you want to know more about him?”
> 
> She resumes her work then, finishing with the butter, and applying a robust amount of rolanberry jam before remarking thoughtfully, “Hells Thancred--that crafty old rogue--spent multiple winters with him on the First and never even saw his face, much less knew his name and now he is suddenly three hundred years younger and lives with us?”
> 
> Toast prepared, she simply leaves the dirty knife on the counter and begins to eat with relish, “Tell me with all seriousness that you are not in the least bit curious?”
> 
> Alphinaud gives a long suffering sigh, and picks up the knife to clean it himself, “Of course I am curious--but it is not proper to sneak into people’s rooms while they are on a picnic.”

## Lucubration

Definition:  
Laborious or intensive study  


Alisaie pauses in the middle of buttering a slice of toast to jab her knife at her twin brother, and asks, “Don’t you want to know _more_ about him?”

She resumes her work then, finishing with the butter, and applying a robust amount of rolanberry jam before remarking thoughtfully, “Hells _Thancred_ \--that crafty old rogue--spent _multiple_ winters with him on the First and never even saw his _face,_ much less knew his name and now he is suddenly three hundred years younger and _lives_ with us?”

Toast prepared, she simply leaves the dirty knife on the counter and begins to eat with relish, “Tell me with all seriousness that you are not in the _least_ bit curious?”

Alphinaud gives a long suffering sigh, and picks up the knife to clean it himself, “Of course I am curious--but it is not _proper_ to sneak into people’s rooms while they are on a picnic.”

His mouth is a thin anxious line and he seems to be absorbed in ignoring her while tidying away the knife properly, but she knows better. Curiosity is their shared curse, after all.

“Suit yourself then,” with her meager lunch eaten and the bait set, she turns sharply on her heel and stalks from the kitchen out into the unusually vacant Rising Stones.

Unusually, because all of the older Scions were out today--running errands mostly--or on a picnic in the case of Stelmaria and G’raha.

G’raha Tia. _A mystery indeed._ By the time Alisaie had joined the Scions he had already been sealed inside the Crystal Tower for almost a full year. The others had known him, but only in passing--Minfilia had probably known him best and then everything _she_ knew was mostly from correspondence with Krile.

During their time on the First, he had been the _Crystal Exarch_ and not G’raha Tia. The Exarch was a kind and giving man, _yes,_ but also untrustworthy and full of riddles--Alisaie felt that she needed to know more about _how_ he ticked before she could be truly comfortable with him as his senior. She was also just a _touch_ jealous of all the time he was spending with Stelmaria, not that she would never admit it.

As far as where to _get_ this information: Minfilia was gone, and asking Krile about him felt a little _too_ easy, assuming Krile would even tell her anything _good._ Which maybe she would have, but Alisaie liked to go big when she made a plan--and this was a _big_ one.

Knife clean and put away, Alphinaud makes a split-second decision: “Alisaie-- _wait!”_

______________________________

“His door is unlocked?” Alphinaud seems shocked when they reach G’raha’s room and let themselves in without having to use force.

She raises white brows and makes a mental note: _Alphinaud is hiding things too is he? Interesting._ “The desk drawer is as well. See?” She demonstrates by opening every drawer in the desk until she finds what she is looking for: a journal just like the one G’raha is constantly writing in.

The whole of the drawer’s space is taken up by a large stack of them in varying states of wear--some seem to be very old indeed, pages and bindings feathering with long use. She takes the topmost book of the stack and opens it greedily.

“It’s like he _wants_ us to look! He may as well have left us an engraved invitation,” she is effervescent with glee at how well her plan is proceeding.

Alphinaud is more circumspect in nature than his twin, but after circling the room a couple of times and assiduously avoiding the pile of journals he gives in to his curiosity and takes the next book from the stack with another sigh.

The pages are filled edge-to-edge with rough sketches and a cramped but clear script in a firm hand-- _G’raha’s._ Alisaie scans quickly and a numbered list leaps out at her from a page opposite a (rather _good,_ if she is being completely honest) portrait of Stelmaria:

  1. _Her favorite colors are red and black._ (There is a smattering of little hearts next to this line, for some reason)
  2. _She loves sweet pastries, coffee, and white wine--especially when I bring them to her._
  3. _She wishes sometimes that she was also an Archon. Mayhap she is a little jealous of the camaraderie about the ‘old days’ in Sharlayan._
  4. _She laughed when I made a ribald joke about Thancred--she loves dirty jokes and innuendo._



_Ugh, he’s studying her like an insect in a jar,_ she thinks as the list continues for some length. Alisaie flips to the next page in mild irritation only to discover _poetry--_ and quite a lot of it. She runs her eyes hungrily over the handwritten text with no small amount of trepidation:

_“I am yours as the summer air at evening is_

_Possessed by the scent of linden blossoms”_ [1]

She pulls a face of disgust, but finds she can’t stop herself from continuing to another poem:

_“She walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that’s best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes”_ [2]

She steels her fraying nerves for one last attempt before she writes this volume off as a lost cause:

_“I love your lips when they’re wet with wine_

_And red with a wild desire;_

_I love your eyes when the lovelight lies_

_Lit with a passionate fire._

_I love your arms when the warm white flesh_

_Touches mine in a fond embrace;_

_I love your hair when the strands enmesh_

_Your kisses against my face.”_ [3]

Agog, she turns to her brother to exclaim, “Seven hells! What is this _tripe?”_

Alphinaud has turned as red as a sugar beet and stares unblinkingly at the open journal in his hands. She reaches out, thinking to take it from him, and asks, “Have _you_ got anything interesting in that volume?”

His eyes go wide and he crushes the book against his chest, looking _incredibly_ guilty, “No! Nothing here at all!”

It _would_ be her luck that he finds _exactly_ the kind of dirt she was looking for and then shows no inclination to share. 

“--What have you _found,_ Alphinaud?” Her voice is pitched low with curiosity, and it is a good thing too because it allows her to hear the footsteps on the stairs.

As her flushed brother mumbles incoherently, she quickly moves to the window, opens it, and levers herself up and out of it with relative grace--considering they are on the second floor.

Alphinaud stares after her with his mouth open for several long seconds, the book at his chest forgotten and is therefore caught red-handed when a smooth voice at the open door behind him asks, “What are you doing in my room?”

______________________________

Clinging to the side of the Rising Stones like an opo-opo was not how she had planned on ending this little expedition, but at least she hadn’t been caught. She shimmies down the facade and lands with a flourish on the ground, feeling rather pleased with herself all things considered.

“Little sister, _what_ have you done now?” _Damn._

It is Stelmaria, of course, smiling widely and eyes bright with mischief. 

Alisaie sniffs as though the very idea of doing exactly what she was _just nearly caught doing_ is beneath her, “I assure you I am merely taking the air, Stelmaria.”

With unfortunate timing a faint, ”But Alisaie--” filters down from G’raha Tia’s open window. A look of understanding flickers over the miqo’te woman’s face before she throws her head and ears back to laugh raucously, tail curling in amusement. A few quick strides bring her close enough to embrace the young elezen warmly.

“Apologize to both G’raha _and_ your brother and I’ll say no more about it,” Stelmaria says with authority, softened somewhat with a fond kiss to the top of Alisaie’s head.

A russet head appears in the upstairs window and, waving at the pair of women below him, calls out, “Darling, I seem to have trapped a very rare _Leveilleur_ snooping in my room. Shall we roast and eat him?”

More boisterous laughter and Alisaie hears a reply from somewhere above her head, “You would need to catch a whole brace of him to get enough meat to fill a _single stewpot._ Pray, let him go.”

Smiling into the fabric of Stelmaria’s dress and her heart swelling with love for her Scion family, Alisaie thinks that _perhaps_ having G’raha around will be for the best after all.

Besides, she can always pry the contents of that journal out of Alphinaud later.

______________________________

“What are you _always_ writing in there anyway? I believe I can count on one hand the number of times you haven’t had one with you,” she is muffled slightly with the line of her mouth pressed against his chest.

She seems to be counting his ribs with kisses, or perhaps trying to make him laugh. Both are equally likely.

“Just notes. Observations. Some of the entries might be a _little more risque_ but those are well hidden,” as he speaks, he feels a sort of foreboding settle over him-- _were they well hidden? He hadn’t missed one had he? Surely not…_

Then he remembers the shocked look on Alphinaud’s face, and knows that he is about to be in an excess of trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else think today's word was lubrication at first??
> 
> Like damn I just did porn yesterday. I ain't a machine.
> 
> CITATIONS AND LINKS TO THE ACTUAL POETRY:  
> [1] Yours by Daniel Hoffman - https://poets.org/poem/yours  
> [2] She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43844/she-walks-in-beauty  
> [3] I Love You by Ella Wheeler Wilcox - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50334/i-love-you-56d22d5628559
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon reflection, the idea that he would be the one doing the saving by himself was frankly laughable. They were a team, and they needed each other--as a fire needs oxygen to rise, bold and beautiful. Separated they were powerful, but together they were unconquerable. He had even told Biggs III as much before the Ironworks had sent him on this mad journey: “So long as we were together, whatever foe stood against us, whatever twist of fate conspired to undermine us, I believed with all my heart that there was nothing we could not do.”
> 
> He had been so absorbed in his burdens that he had forgotten. Or mayhap had chosen to forget.
> 
> Until her steady presence stirred the old G’raha Tia to fully awaken inside him--a morpho emerging from the chrysalis.

## Fade

Definition:  
1 : to lose freshness, strength, or vitality : WITHER  
2 : to lose freshness or brilliance of color  
3 : to sink away : VANISH  
4 : to change gradually in loudness, strength, or visibility  


It had taken a great deal of blood and tears but the spirit vessels were complete and now only required testing. Soon, they would all be able to go home in the  _ relative  _ safety of Stelmaria’s rucksack. Unfortunately, the process had hastened the spread of the crystal across his skin with frightening speed. The tower, much like a jilted lover, knew he was trying to leave and was doing it’s best to keep him here permanently. 

He was going to let it win, but  _ only  _ after he played his trump card. There was not much time left.

He found himself staring at his reflection in the cool surface of the portal to the Source. Over the century he had spent on the First he had watched himself slowly change in ways he had not thought possible, but he had been content because it was for a  _ noble purpose. _

The plan then, was for G’raha Tia to fade  _ gracefully  _ into the past, a sacrifice for the sake of the Crystal Exarch--the man who had the power to save two worlds and the woman he loved with  _ yet more _ noble sacrifice.

When he finally succeeded in bringing Stelmaria to the First, he had felt shame at his appearance for the first time. However, as he was going to commit fully to obscuring himself by wearing a hood and being the  _ Exarch  _ until he successfully flung himself into the Rift--it did not bother him too much.

Then--

_ Then _ she had seen his face and said his name with love stitched into the very timbre of her voice. She had looked upon his scarlet hair leaching out to be replaced with silver, his body turning slowly from flesh to crystal, his personality nearly  _ consumed  _ by duty--and still she wanted him like she had those few glorious moons so long ago when they shared a tent at St. Coinach’s Find. He found that the beauty of it moved him to tears.

Upon reflection, the idea that he would be the one doing the saving by himself was frankly  _ laughable. _ They were a team, and they needed each other--as a fire needs oxygen to rise, bold and beautiful. Separated they were powerful, but together they were unconquerable. He had even told Biggs III as much before the Ironworks had sent him on this mad journey:  _ “So long as we were together, whatever foe stood against us, whatever twist of fate conspired to undermine us, I believed with all my heart that there was nothing we could not do.” _

He had been so absorbed in his burdens that he had forgotten. Or mayhap had  _ chosen  _ to forget.

Until her steady presence stirred the old G’raha Tia to fully awaken inside him--a morpho emerging from the chrysalis.

A smile ghosts across his lips.

G’raha Tia was a damn stubborn, selfish, sentimental fool and the Exarch was  _ eternally  _ grateful for it. He had  _ refused  _ to go quietly, fighting viciously like a cornered wild animal against every restraint that had been applied to him--and in the end he had victoriously squeezed out around the edges and fallen headlong into the embrace of the light that radiated from her. Inexorably, he had been drawn to her and that instinctual bond had saved them all.

_Now,_ though, in exquisite symmetry--as though he had planned it all along--the Exarch would sacrifice himself for _G’raha._

In a way, he would miss this body because he knew that  _ she  _ would miss it. It had served him perfectly well for many years and allowed him to experience many things he never thought he would again. Things that have helped him come back to himself. Things that will allow him to go home to the Source and rejoin his lives, like shuffling two decks of cards together:

_ An endless ocean of laughter, boisterous in the quiet of their bedroom but only slightly smothered in the presence of others, at anything and everything that felt right to them. _

_ An uncountable multitude of giddy, smiling kisses--stolen from softly parted lips in disused crystal corridors and during short breaks in otherwise very serious meetings.  _

_ A luminescent infinity of moaning gasps of his name--his true name--in his ears when he worshipped her body with his own at any time they had desired. Which had been very often indeed in such a short time. _

_ Their legs and tails entwined with each other and tangled in sheets. The whisper of her fingers over where his skin merged with the faceted crystal The softness of her face as she slept peacefully against him. The warm, gentle pressure of her small well-calloused hand in his own of cool blue.  _

He would change, yes, but he would not disappear--for her and for himself. Was he afraid?  _ Of course, _ but he was ready to set aside his duty, completed, and resume his life. Whatever that life might happen to look like. 

_ “Courage is not the absence of fear, it is the triumph over it.” _

He decided that he wished to speak with her now, to let her know what had been accomplished with the vessels. Mayhap they could spend a little more time together while he still inhabited this body.

Placing his hand on the portal with a thrum of power, he saw her--speaking to Elidibus--and he is afraid again, but for her now. He hastily leaves to intercede, Allagan staff hollowly striking the crystal of the floor and robes swishing, closing the Ocular door behind him to lock it with a click.

_ “To take action is to hope. To believe—to choose to believe is to take the first step towards a brighter future. _

_ And why do I tell you this? Because I want you to indulge me in a little recklessness.  _

_ Needless to say, I have a plan. And...when all is said and done, I will ask yet another favor of you.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new Tales from the Shadows is so good, ya'll.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	18. Panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a nearly uncountable burden of ages, and she was very different in many ways but, when she was full of optimism and wild ideas it was so easy to see the spark of Azem in her. Moreso when she managed to drag others into her outrageous gambits with nothing more than her unbreakable will and a can-do attitude.
> 
> In ancient times when he had allowed himself to call her by her true name--times that she could not even remember--he would have been the first one to stand with her, but those days were far behind them now. Still, even in the depths of his despair, he found he loved her for her foolishness.

## Panglossian

Definition:  
Marked by the view that all is for the best in this best of possible worlds : excessively optimistic

A riot of scarlet poppies had fallen from her hands into her lap with a deft application of creation magic. Carefully, she had woven them into a crown: a crown which had _somehow_ found its way atop his nest of tangled white curls--much to his embarrassment.

“Perse--,” he hissed, only to be silenced when she laid a gentle finger upon his lips.

“Hades, hush,” she cooed, “you know that flowers don’t speak--and you look quite _fetching,_ if I may say so.”

Her lips quirked teasingly under the red mask as she magicked yet more poppies into existence and began to plait them while he watched, spellbound. If she said he was a silent flower, then he _was._ He would be anything she asked of him.

“Now we are both flowers!” Triumphantly, she placed the finished crown on her own head and laughed aloud with sparkling joy. The brilliant flowers in her immaculate white strands looked like rubies thrown carelessly over alabaster. His heart beat wildly in his ribs and he found it quite impossible to look away from her majesty.

He kissed her then. He was love-drunk and he could not help himself in the least.

______________________________

“I take it you are very unhappy with me, Azem,” his words are smooth but his innards twist painfully.

“Titles is it, _Emet-Selch?”_ her exasperation with him is plain, and so is her disgust, “It isn’t _always_ about you, if you must know--I am unhappy with this ridiculous plan to sacrifice a full half of us to summon a _monster_ that will _supposedly_ solve everything.”

She puts her head in her hands, “There has to be another way. There is _always_ another way--” She lifts her eyes to his then, and they are burning with cold fury, “--But you won’t listen to me. You won’t even _entertain_ the idea of listening to me. Which, _yes, fine,_ also makes me very unhappy with you.”

“Your optimism will be the death of us all,” he remarks, his mouth bitter, and he knows there is no coming back from this.

“I am going to tender my resignation from the seat of Azem. I wish you a pleasant apocalypse.”

Cheek to the very end. He never sees her alive again.

______________________________

A smile. A nod of encouragement to another--her graceful neck bending in just such a way as to make him shiver.

It had been a nearly uncountable burden of ages, and she was very different in many ways but, when she was full of optimism and wild ideas it was so easy to see the spark of Azem in her. Moreso when she managed to drag others into her outrageous gambits with nothing more than her unbreakable will and a can-do attitude.

In ancient times when he had allowed himself to call her by her true name--times that she could not even remember--he would have been the first one to stand with her, but those days were far behind them now. Still, even in the depths of his despair, he found he _loved_ her for her foolishness.

He had indulged himself in a brief conversation with her at the Ladder: he described the magnificent perfection of _their_ Amaurot, the joyful existence they had all led there, told her that she could be his equal after the calamities--and join them to live in peace for eternity.

_“A complete existence in a complete world.”_

She had given him a look of disgust. Perversely, his blood had _leaped_ with it.

Currently, she was gallivanting the width and breadth of the Scree with the Crystal Exarch and some dwarf, looking for an earthseed heart for their giant Talos.

Another hopelessly idealistic fool, that one--he had spouted off complete nonsense to the mystel they called Chai-Nuzz about _reaching for dreams_ and _determination makes everything possible_ and _one step at a time_. Hades found it all very tiresome.

But somehow, it had worked. The pair of them were a match forged in the hells, truly.

He watched the trio closely--that pitiful fragment of Azem, the Crystal Exarch, and the dwarf as they fought wave after wave of sin eaters: Azem with her rapier and spells, the Exarch full to the brim with the might of Allag’s greatest accomplishment, the dwarf… present.

That the Exarch was some lost Allagan princeling ripped from the Source along with the Crystal Tower, Hades did not doubt--but _why?_ For what purpose? And while Azem was not yet whole and had no idea the powers she could command even in her fragmented state, the Exarch was _very well aware_ of his abilities and did not hesitate to use them.

_Especially_ when it came to her. 

Yes, the Exarch he found _very concerning,_ to say the least.

Now that he thought of it, Azem had told him that she had never seen the Exarch’s face. Hades had only asked the question to foment some conflict, but watching them together now… 

The battle had been won and the Exarch was fairly beaming, singing Azem’s praises to the little dwarf--even though she seemed a trifle uncomfortable. He became a giddy young man in her presence: laughing, smiling, and recklessly seeking her attention with feats of magic that clearly strained him, out so far from the tower as the Scree was.

It was so obvious to his experienced eye that he nearly laughed aloud: That fool was in _love_ with her. The absurdity of it beggars belief. The notion that Azem could ever return the love of a half-man--for a prince of Allag was still only a half-man compared to Hades--was _ridiculous._

However that made it so much easier to understand the Exarch--if _everything_ had been done for the sake of a single hero…

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place for him: the Exarch’s master plan was to steal the Light from her and destroy it in the Rift by using the energy of the tower, saving her and preventing the Ardor in one fell swoop.

That would not do _at all._ The smile left his lips, and in its place was cold calculation. 

Once Vauthry fell, as Hades was now sure he would, the Exarch would make his move. Hades would need to incapacitate him quickly to keep the Light inside the Warrior. Then, he would invite her to Amaurot where he would offer her one last chance to join him. It _might_ even work this time, without her _new lover_ in the way.

Once she was fully Azem--and saw that he had been right all along--they could begin their life together anew. A millenia’s worth of memories of days and nights filled with her presence and love came to him again, but instead of the misery he usually felt there was joy. _Hope._ With a new world and a new life anything was possible, surely?

  
He truly did laugh now. Azem’s infinite optimism had infected even him and _what a feeling it was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did Emet-Selch justice...
> 
> I feel like he and the Exarch make an interesting contrast.
> 
> No? Just me?
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	19. Where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greedy for the taste of her skin, he sucks a small red welt onto her freshly exposed collarbone, hands sliding smoothly up under her shirt to gently squeeze both breasts through her bralette. Her back is pressed tight to the wall, legs locked around his narrow waist--anchored in reality by the warm heavy weight of him. Desperately, she tugs at his shirt until he lifts his arms to allow it to come up and over his head, mussing his crimson hair dreadfully in the process. Neither of them cares in the slightest when it disappears into the gloom over his shoulder. 
> 
> She revels in the feeling of him under her hands, all hard muscle and smooth skin with not a trace of the faceted crystal. His very presence so close to her is like levin in the blood and she wants him--needs him--inside her so badly that she can hardly think straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit.

## Where the heart is

### 

Definition:  
One's home is made up of the places and people one loves or cherishes most.  


### 

“We have to stop doing this, Raha. I don’t think my nerves can take it,” she moans into his ear as she unbuttons the high collar of her dress with shaky hands. 

Greedy for the taste of her skin, he sucks a small red welt onto her freshly exposed collarbone, hands sliding smoothly up under her shirt to gently squeeze both breasts through her bralette. Her back is pressed tight to the wall, legs locked around his narrow waist--anchored in reality by the warm heavy weight of him. Desperately, she tugs at his shirt until he lifts his arms to allow it to come up and over his head, mussing his crimson hair dreadfully in the process. Neither of them cares in the slightest when it disappears into the gloom over his shoulder. 

She revels in the feeling of him under her hands, all hard muscle and smooth skin with not a trace of the faceted crystal. His very presence so close to her is like levin in the blood and she wants him--needs him--inside her so badly that she can hardly think straight.

Pity they were currently in a cramped, dusty hall closet and this was very nearly the limit of how far they could go without being discovered.

He sighs warmly into her neck as she scrapes her nails across his shoulders, “You have a veritable surfeit of nerve  _ Stelmaria Meioh, Eikon Slayer, _ but I can understand the sentiment.” 

His normally honeyed tone takes on an edge of frustration, though the calloused hands now rasping up her ribs with deliberate slowness remain tender. ”It  _ has _ been rather difficult of late to get any privacy amongst our fellow Scions.”

_ Difficult _ is a bit of an understatement. 

She stops tracing the shape of his Archon tattoo with her mouth to raise her eyes to meet his, or she assumes she does in any case--the closet is very dark and her Keeper eyes have not quite adjusted yet: “Indeed, they just barge into any room at  _ any _ time. It’s almost as if they have never seen a closed door in their lives--that or they have some  _ insatiable need _ to see your naked backside.”

His quiet laugh is like warm velvet against her hair,  _ “You _ certainly seem to have a need to see it frequently enough. Surely, you could not blame them if that  _ were _ the case?”

She did not really think they were doing it on purpose, but recently it certainly  _ felt _ like a concerted effort between their fellow Scions to never allow them to be alone together; closed doors were ignored, locked doors would be knocked on without fail in less than a quarter bell, an outing for just the two of them would somehow become a group affair--which was to say nothing of the  _ teasing. _ Good natured of course, but she found that a little bit went a long way.

His hands dip to rest on the swell of her hips, steadying them both, fingertips blazing trails of fire across skin already flush with desire. She is surprised she is not fairly glowing with light and heat like an ember at his touch. Her eyes have adjusted to the shadows now, and the hunger she feels coiling in her belly is mirrored on his face: Ruby eyes hooded, hair disheveled from her hands, bare chest flushed and heaving with a barely controlled need to have her--right here, right now--consequences be  _ damned. _

He lowers his head, placing soft, full lips over hers to swallow her moans as he experimentally rocks his hips into her. Galaxies burst into being inside her as the fullness of him is pressed into the ache between her legs. It is exquisite torture to be near him, surrounded by his scent and warmth and strength--and be unable to have him. It feels as though she might go mad if he didn’t take her quickly, and soon. The idea of the both of them moving in tandem until they shivered against each other in bliss, minds blank is very tempting to her indeed.

Again, he moves against her deliberately, whimpering into her mouth, “I can’t stop.... Stelmaria, I--” 

The distress in his voice breaks what little was left of her resolve, “Hurry--” she breathes, reaching for the front of his trousers to stroke him, “I need--”

With a growl, his long fingers roughly shove her small clothes aside as she undoes his trousers. Suddenly, his hips move again and he finally, effortlessly, smoothly enters her. If his mouth was not still pressed to hers she would have cried out in pleasure. He doesn’t take a moment to enjoy teasing her as he usually does--neither of them will last long enough for that.

She is already so dangerously close to that glittering precipice. When he lightly brushes a finger across her clit as he begins to move slickly in and out her body in earnest, she comes instantly--seeing stars, hands fisted in his hair, breathlessly thanking a long list of deities that they had seen fit to bless her with this man.

It only takes a handful more swift thrusts before he spills hotly into her, shoving his tongue into her mouth and pressing even further into her, shaking like a leaf in a chill autumn wind.

They are quiet then and, with their bodies still close, they wait for the aftershocks that pass between them to subside. She is running a silken ear mindlessly through her fingers when abruptly he says, “We should move out of the Rising Stones. I believe I would like to ravish you in closets on my own terms, rather than out of necessity.”

Her mouth falls open in shock and her head knocks the shelves behind her, “Move out?” She hisses with a wince, a hand going to the back of her head to rub what would no doubt become a lump. “You mean… live together?!”

It strikes her as absurd that he wants to have a conversation like this  _ now, _ the pair of them half-dressed, no doubt looking thoroughly tumbled--and still joined at that, his seed dripping wetly from her body and onto her smallclothes. Though to be fair, with the way things had been lately, there was no other time to talk about it  _ besides _ now.

He tilts her face upward with the knuckles of one hand to slant his mouth over hers, chuckling at her shock and clumsiness, “Hush. Have you not noticed how half of your things are  _ already _ in my room? Or that I have left complete changes of clothes and a spare toothbrush in yours? We successfully shared a tent for a full summer--yes,  _ darling, _ I think we should live together.”

She looks at him with not a little apprehension until, sensing her discomfort, he continues into the dark silence--melodious voice a little curt but not unkind, “We have saved two worlds and each other. Surely we will be able to manage living under the same roof as  _ normal couples _ do?”

“What about the Scions?” she asks.

What she means, but doesn’t explain, is that--for her--home is where her family is and for all of their  _ frustrating _ habits she needed to keep them as close as possible. She loved the Scions and wanted their presence and companionship too, just as much as she wanted time with him.

“You really are a glutton,” he purrs as he rubs his lips over hers, their noses brushing lightly. “We can keep a single room here to share, and stay wherever we wish on any given sun. At least we will have an option. How does that sound?”

A loud bang on the closet door causes the pair to jump nearly a fulm, sending both of their tails swishing in consternation and upsetting various items on shelves. Then comes Tataru’s exasperated voice, “Stop doing whatever you are doing in there! I need the broom, please!”

“A moment, then,” G’raha raises his voice so he is audible through the door, and he helps Stelmaria regain her footing to set herself to rights before he turns to look for the broom and his shirt. Seeker eyes were not so well suited to the dark as Keeper ones, and she has to find both for him after quickly passing her hands over her hair.

He opens the door with a flourish and presents the broom to Tataru with his best innocent smile, “There you are Mistress Tataru, your broom. We have organized the closet as well, you will no doubt be pleased to note.”

The effect is rather spoilt by the fact that his shirt is on backwards and his hair is a  _ complete _ mess. Tataru looks back and forth rapidly between them, suspicion blooming behind her eyes.

G’raha seems to decide that discretion is the better part of valor and walks quickly down the hall to escape any forthcoming accusations of impropriety, dragging Stelmaria by the hand and saying under his breath, “I can make arrangements to view some homes if you wish?”

He turns his head to look back at her, and her heart flutters in her chest at his swollen lips curled into a shameless grin, carmine eyes impish. 

She returns his good cheer with a smile of her own, feeling content all the way down to her bones, ”Yes. I would like that. So long as the others can come visit if they like?”

As much as he wants privacy, he won’t deny her anything she asks for.

He laughs aloud and his russet ears dance merrily atop his head, “Yes of course. So long as they  _ call _ first--from the Rising Stones, mind you, and  _ not _ when they are already at the front door.”

At that moment Tataru squawks loudly behind them in irritation when she finally catches sight of her distressed shelves, and they both giggle shamelessly as they run until their ribs and faces ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a struggle but I'm happy with how it turned out in the end.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	20. Ubiquitous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a journal, well-used, its leather cover stained and wrinkled with age. Its pages are filled edge-to-edge with a cramped Sharlayan shorthand. Many places have been splotched carelessly with ink, as if the author did not have much time to be circumspect in writing individual entries--only a moment to jot something down and move on quickly. A sign of the troublesome happenings in his life.
> 
> It lives in the locked bedside table drawer of its owner. 
> 
> He is currently re-reading it as he recovers from being shot. It has been difficult for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ubiquitous was the Merriam-Webster word of the day for September 20, 2020.

## Ubiquitous

### 

Definition:  
Existing or being everywhere at the same time : constantly encountered : widespread  


### 

There is a journal, well-used, its leather cover stained and wrinkled with age. Its pages are filled edge-to-edge with a cramped Sharlayan shorthand. Many places have been splotched carelessly with ink, as if the author did not have much time to be circumspect in writing individual entries--only a moment to jot something down and move on quickly. A sign of the troublesome happenings in his life.

It lives in the locked bedside table drawer of its owner. 

He is currently re-reading it as he recovers from being shot. It has been difficult for him.

______________________________

[Entry undated; ink badly splotched.]

She died horribly. The Black Rose froze her aether nearly two centuries ago.

She suffocated painfully, alone, and I was asleep.

______________________________

**_Sixteenth Sun of the First Umbral Moon, 200 8UE_ **

Biggs--and by Biggs I mean Biggs the Third, not the Biggs I knew before--and his team opened the doors of Syrcus Tower during this past Heavensturn. They were hoping the date would be auspicious. In a way it was, as they managed to accomplish one of their long-awaited goals: To awaken the caretaker of the Crystal Tower.

Truthfully, it did not feel auspicious to me. I knew that she would, in all likelihood, be long gone when I awoke, but the yawning chasm of grief that the knowledge ripped in me was... I did not take it well.

I was very naive indeed when I sealed myself in the Tower. I feel that I still am.

Gently, for I have been rather fragile I suppose, Biggs told me of their plan--a truly mad endeavor dreamed up by Cid and Nero before their passing. A plan that generations of Ironworks engineers have labored for since.

It involves basically stealing the abilities of two legendary beings, Omega and Alexander, and fusing them into a cleverly constructed simulacrum controlled by the Ironworks that is in turn used to drive the Crystal Tower.

This unholy monstrosity of engineering, Allagan might, and hubris will be flung headlong into the interdimensional rift where, with luck, it can turn the tide of the First’s Rejoining.

They need me. For my expertise regarding the fitting of the Tycoon, as they have dubbed the simulacrum, to the tower--but also to pilot the damn thing.

A hopeful madman, lost in time and space with only a tower brimming with enough power to destroy a star, sent there by other madmen from a mad and dying world. Purely to save one woman. 

I was not joking when I called it _mad._

I told Biggs that nothing would honor me more than to do my part in this grand enterprise.

______________________________

**_Fifteenth Sun of the Third Umbral Moon, 200 8UE_ **

In truth I was not sure how well I would be able to connect with the current Ironworks members. Their experience of life in this harsh wasteland full of mayhem and murder is very different from anything I have ever known. 

For my part, I have been told that I am “an insufferable know-it-all git” who is “only marginally bearable in small doses” by no less esteemed personages than Krile Mayer Baldesion. Bearing those facts in mind I assumed these people would find me at best tolerable, and at worst a necessary burden for my connection to the tower.

We get along splendidly. Like me, they spend their days in research and their nights huddled together in the hulking wreck of the _Agrias_ telling each other stories about the Warrior. My Warrior.

She fills the cracks in their hearts just as she does mine. She is dead, but she is not gone.

I cannot help but love those who love her.

______________________________

**_First Sun of the Fourth Astral Moon, 200 8UE_ **

We are still trying to pinpoint an exact date from which to pull the Warrior. We need her at her prime, when she was most full of life and power. The timeline of events during the Ala Mighan Revolution is relatively fleshed out, but we needed more information about her time in Coerthas.

So the decision was made to trek to Ishgard to retrieve the unabridged memoirs of Lord Edmont de Fortemps--her foster father as I have since learned.

The journey itself was full to overflowing with horrors that I shall not recount here, but suffice to say I am quite glad of the many long years I trained to be an accurate and efficient shot with a bow. Within the crumbling ruins of Ishgard lived a small group of folk that we spent a couple of suns with, swapping extra rations and tales of the Warrior for guidance to likely places to find the memoirs. We were successful.

Ere we departed, some of the expedition wished to visit her grave to make offerings. With all that had been accomplished, they were that much closer to saving her and they were thankful for her guidance. I wanted to go with them, but I also did not want to go, fearing what it might do to my emotions.

I went.

She rests in a mausoleum befitting a queen, with her beloved Haurchefant at her side. It stands in Providence Point, Coerthas Central Highlands, overlooking the sprawl of what was once the great city of the elezen--now a shattered, burned-out ruin. The grave is well cared for, in contrast to almost everything else in this world. Two centuries gone and she still inspires devotion in the hearts of all mankind.

It is said that Lord Fortemps himself arranged her funeral and burial: her blood family having perished in the destruction of the Shroud, and her fellow Scions having fallen to the Black Rose in the moons before her own passing. Many and more journeyed hard to stand in thanks for her life and to mourn her passing. A larger gathering has not been seen in Eorzea before or since.

I stood there, rooted to the spot--one hand on the rough stone of her tomb--for what felt like bells, feeling her presence in the cold Coerthan air as the tears froze on my face. The others left small trinkets or said prayers as if she were a deity in her own right. To them, mayhap she is.

She is everywhere at all times. Her whole life was given for them, though it was not enough to spare them from this torment. They remember her with joy all the same. They keep her alive in their darkest times. She is their guiding light and their hope for salvation.

No one understands that sentiment better than me.

But to me--to me she was also flesh and blood. A scarred body that I held tenderly close to mine. A partner in an adventure I did not deserve and that ended too soon. A small woman with an untold weight on her shoulders that I only added to in my short time with her. 

I will fix this. I have to--I am the only one who can.

______________________________

**_Fourteenth Sun of the Fifth Astral Moon, 8UE_ **

I got drunk when we returned from Coerthas. There is not a lot of alcohol in this world, but what there is… is extremely potent. Besides, after two centuries of sleep I have lost much of my previous tolerance.

I found it neccessary after reading _Heavensward_ for the sixth time in a row. To have the full story laid out before me by the hand of one who loved her was heartbreaking in its entirety--the various scattershot accounts of the ordeals surrounding the hectic liberation of Ala Mihgo and Doma paled in comparison. 

It was the right decision to seal myself away, I know it now beyond doubt, but I still feel guilt that I missed so much of her life--could not comfort her through so much sorrow.

I took my harp and went to the top of the _Agrius_ to pour out my troubles to Midgardsormr. I have found myself doing so from time to time, when the pressures of my new life and the expectations of these people become harder to bear. He is a good listener.

Soon enough, Biggs found me and took a seat to listen to me drunkenly warble Ilsabardian love songs at a fossilized dragon before he spoke:

“We will send you through the Rift within the next three moons, G'raha Tia. Will you be ready?”

I smiled at him, though it was no doubt excessively watery. He had the good grace to not comment on my current state. The drink made me say what was in my heart, and I do not regret it in the slightest: “I am always ready to save the woman I love, Biggs. Set your date and let us be about it.”

______________________________

_ <<bzzzt>> ...has come to carry out our plan. This will be my last recording. _

_With the tower activated and the temporal displacement apparatus online, all that remains is to throw the switch. And pray._

_I'm sorry, I truly am. I wish there was another way._

_But you are our best chance of success. Our only hope. Your gift will allow you to become one with the tower and survive the journey through time and space. Were our technology as advanced as that of the Allagans, perhaps we could've gone with you._

_Alas, it was not to be. But when you are finally reunited, all of the hardship, all of the sacrifice will've been worth it, I'm sure._

_Just promise me you'll spare a thought for those you leave behind. And we'll be thinking of you, too, for as long as this world lasts, though I fear it will not be for much longer._

_This is Biggs, third of his name, eighteenth president of Garlond Ironworks, signing off. May the Twelve be at your side, G'raha Tia. <<bzzzt>> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a fucking sap ya'll. Damn.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	21. Foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watches with baited breath as the beast dissolves in a cloud of poisonous, scintillating light and she reaches out a hand--and draws it into herself. The Blessing of Light holds and with an upward explosion of her power the sickly sky is bisected by a line of velvet obsidian, twinkling with stars.
> 
> “Behold! The monster’s power is broken! And the world twisted by its touch returns to its rightful form!” he hears himself speaking aloud, voice remarkably steady as tears course down his face under the hood.
> 
> Alisaie, Alphinaud, and Lyna are shocked: voices tremulous, mouths open, and heads tilted back to gaze awestruck at the return of the sunless sea. 
> 
> He only has eyes for her. He never doubted her for a moment.

## Foibles

Definition:  
1 : the part of a sword or foil blade between the middle and point  
2 : a minor flaw or shortcoming in character or behavior : WEAKNESS

Stelmaria Meioh is a wonder, truly.

A shimmering storm of spell and blade.

She was a sight to behold all those years ago on the Source as well, though she used a harp and bow then.

Now, with the Leveilleur twins at her side, she is even more deadly. Camaraderie and love born of long hours in difficult circumstances have made them a force to be reckoned with--a family. He can see on their young faces how much they missed her presence in their lives these past moons.

In comparison, he feels positively ancient and thoroughly superfluous: a clumsy limb attached haphazardly to a well-oiled machine. Which is to say nothing of the fatigue he can already feel creeping into his bones, even this short a distance from the tower. He is glad that Lyna is with them, if only so that he is not the only one a little out of place--gladder still that he is not responsible for anything but taking hits.

Unfortunately, he does not think he is giving a particularly impressive showing of that set of skills either. He grits his teeth against the pain as the eater he is entertaining strikes his shield with a _klang,_ and the shock of the blow shoots like a bolt of levin up his one good arm to trigger white hot fire behind his eyes.

_“Exarch!_ Are you well? You seem… distracted?” Alphinaud sends magic into him, only taking the edge off.

Sadly, it does nothing for his embarrassment.

“I am fine, thank you. I have received much worse,” and he is not lying for once. 

Stelmaria gazes at him critically across the fray and under the cowl, his cheeks redden.

An overeager sin eater knocking him around is nothing compared to the look she had given him when he told her that he did _not_ know a person named G’raha Tia. He would rather fight a legion of eaters than see that look directed at him again.

Of course, he _would_ see it again before this was all over if he had his druthers--still it would be nice if he was spared all the same.

The fighting continues as they pass through the town of Holminster Switch on the trail of the Lightwarden. As her eyes move over the bodies of the fallen he can see that she is fighting tears. So many others would not even spare them a glance, but she looks and mourns as much as she is able to for now. 

Stelmaria is careful with Alisaie as well, the younger woman’s grief for Tesleen being newly ripped open by her re-appearance and subsequent defeat as a sin eater. He catches them holding hands more than once behind Alphinaud and Lyna’s backs, a simple comforting gesture of solidarity--to show the elezen that she is here for her.

He did not believe Alisaie was the type to relax into such things as physical comfort but, as always, it is different with the Warrior. She is special and allows one to be better than one was before--do more, _feel more._

He understands this. He loves her too, for the strength that she gives him. Just the memory of her helped him survive a post-apocalyptic wasteland and then, a century of leadership on an alien shard.

Now she is here incarnate and she has slain the Lightwarden of Lakeland.

He watches with baited breath as the beast dissolves in a cloud of poisonous, scintillating light and she reaches out a hand--and draws it into herself. The Blessing of Light holds and with an upward explosion of her power the sickly sky is bisected by a line of velvet obsidian, twinkling with stars.

_“Behold! The monster’s power is broken! And the world twisted by its touch returns to its rightful form!”_ he hears himself speaking aloud, voice remarkably steady as tears course down his face under the hood.

Alisaie, Alphinaud, and Lyna are shocked: voices tremulous, mouths open, and heads tilted back to gaze awestruck at the return of the sunless sea. 

He only has eyes for her. He never doubted her for a moment. 

He steps forward slowly and for a mad instant thinks of throwing caution to the winds to take her in his arms in joy, but he cannot allow himself such things--now or ever. He simply kneels before her instead: A knight swearing fealty to his lord or asking for his lady’s favor in a children’s tale.

_“How many years have I waited for this moment... For the one possessed of Her blessing. For you.”_

She softens as she looks down into the shadows under the cowl and he fancies that she can see his ruby eyes… might recognize him, but it is only a passing dream--a trick of the starlight, surely.

Breathless, he begs again for her to save them all, both the First and the Source. He does not say that she will be saving herself in the bargain--he means to see it done without her knowledge.

_“But... be that as it may... I concede it was wrong of me to summon you to this fight against your will.”_

The rapidly cooling ground beneath his knee is seeping upward into him with cruel fingers, causing his ancient body to ache with the chill, but he bows to her in supplication: _“I swear on my life, I will one day atone for that deed. But for the present... “_

He raises his head again to meet her eyes. There is no mistaking it--there is a glimmer of something in her gaze that he cannot quite identify. It generates a frisson of excitement and fear, like levin in his veins.

_“I beg you stay and see this fight to its conclusion. Cast down the Wardens, and restore Darkness to the First!”_

She nods regally, the soft light of the stars like a crown upon her hair. Her eyes on him feel heavy with destiny, _“I will become the Warrior you need.”_

______________________________

Within two bells of their return to the Crystarium she finds him as he paces across the Exedra, the lightness in his heart at the return of night and the happiness of his people contrasting with the discomfort in his arm. He cannot seem to shake it, even so close to the tower..

“Exarch? ...My lord?” She seems hesitant at addressing him.

It is strange, this combination of delight and sorrow that he experiences when she calls for him now. He delights that she asks for him at all, yet he is reminded again that he will not hear his true name from her lips for the rest of his numbered heartbeats. Turning, he faces her expectantly, but he is quiet.

“How is your arm? That blow earlier… you looked like you were in pain?” The concern in her voice is written all over her face, “I am no chigurgeon, but I have some skill with healing magic and alchemy. Let me look at you? If you don’t mind?”

She reaches for his arm, and there is an almost unbearable wave of nostalgia. When he was still G’raha Tia, she was always reaching for him: to bring him on some adventure or to get him to return with her to their tent, but this feels different. Her tone is formal--businesslike.

“I was on my way to Spagyrics just now to have it looked at,” he lies smoothly, the taste of it acrid on his tongue.

“Forgive me, _Exarch,_ but you strike me as a man who refuses to help himself unless forced. I am quite happy to force you,” she motions at him with the hand that is still outstretched, waiting for him to acquiesce to her demand.

He knows he should not oblige her but he does, _Twelve help him._ He has never been able to deny her anything. It is a weakness in his personality--a yawning fault line only ripped wider by three centuries of longing.

She moves close, almost too close: He can feel the heat of her body and her perfume all but pierces his brain with its deadly precision. _Lavender… rosemary… orange blossoms…_ after all this time it is still his favorite scent. In no small part, his fondness for her perfume is why the Crystarium is famous for its lavender--he found he couldn’t live without it. 

With gentle pressure and warm fingers she analyzes every ilm of his spoken arm for scratches, wounds, or broken bones. Then, each joint of his fingers is put through a full range of motion to check for swelling and sprains. Finally, she seems satisfied that he is well enough, and retrieves a small glass bottle from a pouch at her waist.

He cannot hardly hear himself speak over the staccato of his thundering heart in his ears but he asks, “What is that?”

_Is she blushing?_ It is hard for him to see well enough to be sure, his Seeker eyes are not so sensitive in darkness and the Crystarium was not designed with outdoor lighting in mind. Another issue that will need to be remedied.

“A warming oil--I made it for you,” she pauses in the act of opening the bottle with one hand, her eyes seeing nothing but shadows but, again, that ghost of something crosses her face.

“I brought you here for a battle that is not yours, you owe me nothing,” he demurs, but makes no move to pull away.

With a sigh, she opens the bottle and pours a little of the oil directly on the back of his wrist. After returning the bottle to the pouch she runs both of her hands through it, one after another and begins to massage his hand and fingers saying sharply, “You said you would atone for bringing me here. Atone by doing as I say.”

Then her voice lowers in pitch, her timbre almost like the velvet of the night sky overhead, ”Besides, you fought with me today. And you remind me of someone I cared for deeply…”

She is thorough and methodical, working upward towards his elbow with soothing strokes. The motion of her hands and the rasping sound her sword calluses make as they pass across his skin is hypnotizing. He smells yet more lavender and feels a tingling in his arm, realizing that the oil is beginning to warm. The soreness is already receding with her ministrations and being cared for like this is…

He looks down fondly at the top of her head while she is absorbed in her task.

It is the most alert he has been in a century--the most alive.

This is the first time he has been touched by another person, skin to skin, in decades. She is completely undisturbed by his station and his titles, she simply wishes to care for him--a man she barely knows.

It is torture. G’raha Tia--that selfish fool--stirs restlessly within him, wanting more.

He feels a savage desire to throw off his hood and kiss her senseless right here in the middle of the Exedra, to crush her to him with his unnatural strength, to debase her as he howls like an animal in the midst of a rut. How she cannot feel his blood roaring in his veins and his pulse fluttering wildly under her hands, he does not know--he can only thank Azeyma for small mercies.

Then, it is over. 

“I hope you feel better. You can keep the rest, to use in case you feel a twinge anywhere later,” she smiles brightly and holds out the remainder of the bottle to him.

He wants to scream himself hoarse at the loss of her touch but he thanks her calmly and takes it with a hand that he is pleased to note, does not shake. She almost lost everything before she came here and he is the one who took them from her: her friends, her autonomy, her battle with the Garleans--and still she not only returns the night sky but freely gives him a gift within the same sun. The least he can do is accept graciously.

As she walks away in the direction of the Pendants he thinks to return to the Ocular quickly, lest he embarrass himself further under the watchful eyes of his people.

But then she turns back to look at him and the meaning behind her expression is finally clear:

It is _knowing._

Truly, this is going to be even more difficult than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was suspiciously easy to write.
> 
> I'm scared.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	22. Argy-bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had walked back into their new Mists cottage from a short shopping excursion and tripped over his boots. He had left them carelessly just inside the doorway. Again.
> 
> “I nearly fell and broke my neck, Raha. Would you please--?” she had begun, a bit heatedly.
> 
> Now… somehow she is leaning back against the kitchen counter and he is kneeling on the floor in front of her.
> 
> With his head the color of living flame set between her legs, one lifted up over his shoulder.
> 
> This seemed to be happening a lot lately. She couldn’t really complain, but it did make it a little difficult to have an argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit.
> 
> Sequel to "Where the heart is."

## Argy-bargy

### 

Definition:  
A lively discussion : ARGUMENT, DISPUTE  


### 

She had walked back into their new Mists cottage from a short shopping excursion and tripped over his boots. He had left them carelessly just inside the doorway. Again.

“I nearly fell and broke my neck, Raha. Would you please--?” she had begun, a bit heatedly.

Now… somehow she is leaning back against the kitchen counter and he is kneeling on the floor in front of her.

With his head the color of living flame set between her legs, one lifted up over his shoulder.

This seemed to be happening a lot lately. She couldn’t really complain, but it did make it a little difficult to have an argument.

“You never put away your boots--,” she says, valiantly trying again anyway.

His breath is warm and the silken tips of his ears dance against the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs as he closes his mouth over her clit and sucks hard. Her mind blanks out completely, and for a moment she forgets everything but the feeling of those lips on her: his tongue working in lazy circles as he continues to suck and tease.

He laughs then, warm and low in his throat, and the vibration makes her whimper, “Oh no my love, please tell me more about how horrible I am to live with?”

That brings her back to reality, and her mismatched eyes snap open to meet his as he looks up innocently from the floor. He does not stop the delicious things he is doing to her.

“You aren’t supposed to talk with your mouth full, it’s rude,” she replies, grinning wickedly. Her face is flushed and her pupils are wide, but she still has a certain dignity to her--even with her dress pushed up to her hips and her pantalettes lost in a corner of the kitchen somewhere.

Something flickers over his handsome features, but by the time she realizes what it is, it is too late. He stands up and she is thrown unceremoniously over his shoulder like a sack of popotoes before being treated to fleeting views of the other rooms of the cottage as he walks quickly down the hall with her.

The world spins again and she is face up on their bed now, the respite having supplied her with more grievances, “You leave half-drunk mugs of tea everywhere--and you steal my bookmarks to use them yourself.”

The words lose some impact, being delivered as they are during a frantic rush to sit up and remove the rest of her clothing, normally deft fingers gone clumsy as her heart flutters like a caged animal in her breast. He is watching her intently as he moves to discard his own clothes, and hidden under the amused tilt of his sensual mouth is something distinctly  _ predatory. _

“When I ask you to do something, you look at me as if I am speaking a foreign language. Yes!  _ That look right there!” _ she points at him as his face morphs from  _ dangerous _ into a charming expression that can only be described as  _ aggravatingly befuddled. _

He is surprised into a barking laugh and the expression melts away, “Stelmaria, you have told me before that I am an  _ ‘irredeemable idiot’ _ and a  _ ‘prat of the highest order’. _ How can I possibly understand what you require under the weighty truth of labels like that?”

She is simply mesmerized as every ilm of his skin becomes slowly visible as he speaks. The sunlight filtering in from the curtained window reveals a lean, well-muscled body with normally creamy skin gone slightly pink in anticipation. His crimson hair falls around his shoulders in glorious loose waves and, with his tail swaying behind him, ears piqued and swiveled in her direction, she is reminded of the legends she heard in Hingashi. Tales of clever foxes taking on the appearance of beautiful women and handsome men to cause mischief or find lovers. She resolves to watch his shadow closely when she can--to see if she can catch it changing shape, that apparently being the only way to tell for sure if your lover is human or a  _ kitsune. _

Her dress and smallclothes are gone, with no memory of how she accomplished it. Determined to act unaffected by his beauty she gestures pointedly to the pile of his clothes on the floor, “Your dirty laundry is always next to the hamper and not in it.”

The continued tilt of his lips becomes feral and his eyes gleam evilly as he quickly lays on the bed with her and pulls her back flush against his chest, entwining his leg with hers to hold them open. His hand, the hand that was once crystal, teases across her already sensitive pearl as the other hand seizes a pebbled nipple and pinches fiercely. She gasps, and all of her thoughts fall out of her head again as her body becomes blissfully unaware of everything but what he is doing to her.

“I do apologize, my little den of coeurls, I shall endeavor to be more pleasing to you in every way,” he growls hotly into her ear and his fingers make obscene noises as he deftly strokes her slickness with a measured rhythm. 

She arches her back to fist her hand in his hair and force his mouth to hers. Tongues meet and she can taste herself on his lips before he grinds down on her clit with his palm and three fingers push inside with a lewd squelching noise. Colors swim behind her eyelids as the hot tension in her core reaches a delirious crescendo and she bucks wildly against his hand as she comes, moaning incoherent filth into his mouth and pulling his face closer.

“Make me come like that again and I will forgive you anything,” she breathes contentedly as soon as the haze clears.

“A challenge is it?” he purrs, hands still insistent, palms gliding smoothly over every ilm of her fevered skin he can reach.

Her pulse is between her legs again and she can feel the hardened length of him against her bottom. She rolls onto her back and pulls him over on top of her. Humoring her with a short huff, he spends some time exploring her lovely neck, her perfect breasts, her flushed skin with his soft lips, warm mouth, and sharp teeth until she is breathing heavily and pressing her hips up into him.

The he gets up on his knees and flips her over on all fours, before jerking her hips backwards onto his cock and sheathing himself fully in one smooth motion. She yelps and thrashes her tail when he fists a hand in her hair to pull it, not gently but not quite roughly either.

He groans when she clenches around him, and she can smell her own arousal mixed with his, “Now you will hear my list of complaints, my dear. Are you ready?”

The knot in her belly grows exponentially tighter and the warm fullness of him throbs inside her as she turns to nod at him, eyes wide in both apprehension and demand.

She nearly sobs at his slow, languid thrust. “You work too much,” he says calmly. 

“You don’t relax enough,” another thrust, excruciating in its leisurely pace.

“You steal my clothes to sleep in,” he is so deep and her mind is fraying so fast she is having trouble discerning where her body ends and his begins, not that it is really causing her any great distress.

“You eat all of my snacks and then put the empty containers back thinking I won’t notice,” his voice is still maddeningly steady for all that this is doing to her, and she can’t bear to let this one pass unremarked.

“I  _ told _ you that was Alisaie,” she snaps, her ears flat against her head in annoyance.

Ignoring her, he releases her hair to put two fingers in her mouth as he drives his hips smoothly into her again, the fingertips of his remaining hand gripping her haunch so hard she knows there will be bruises.

His fingers taste like her too, the flavor of her own juices making her feel unhinged and her control crumbles away, leaving only a white hot spark of savage need. She runs her tongue across the digits in her mouth as if they are his cock--wildly, wetly, and moaning his name. Finally, he breaks and slams into her faster, unable to stop himself.

“Stelmaria, sometimes I talk to you about my research and you just nod blankly then go back to your romance novel,” he gasps, his breath growing ragged at his frantic pace, hands digging into her flesh and it seems this is the most egregious crime of them all as he rips his fingers out of her mouth and rubs at her apex again frantically.

“I’m sorry Raha, just  _ please _ don’t stop fucking me!” she hisses through clenched fangs and she is not sure if it is his  _ name _ or the  _ obscenity _ that causes him to pull out of her suddenly with an animalistic groan--spending himself in scorching ropes over her back and bottom.

She doesn’t have too much time to ponder it before she is lost herself, body spasming in mindless pleasure against his fingers, awareness fragmenting in the face of too much sensation--like stone being inexorably worn away by the tides.

They stay where they are for a long moment, breathing heavily, his fingers still tight on her hip and his weight pressing down onto her. Then he collects himself enough to go find a warm cloth and she flops onto the bed, face first, as if she is dead.

He is chuckling deeply when he returns, and wipes her backside for her, the intimacy of it a common and comforting thing now that they are together and  _ home. _ He runs his lips across the plane of her shoulder, branding her with the heat of them, before he opens his mouth--a curious expression on his face, “Maybe we could--?”

Half asleep and with her face in the quilt her mothers gave them for a hearthwarming gift, she does not hear him speaking, and accidentally interrupts, “Thank you Raha, but please be sure you put that in the hamper?”

At this sound of his uproarious laughter she turns her head to free one eye and sees him, with dramatic sarcasm, do as she bids before he returns to bed to gather her into his arms. He kisses her forehead, her hair, both cheeks, the line of her jaw--everywhere his lips can reach, chuckling warmly.

“Demanding, unreasonable harpy,” he grumbles in that voice as smooth as velvet and sweet as honey. He is smiling. He does not continue his earlier statement.  _ Mayhap another time, _ he thinks.

She reaches a small hand to move a silken lock of his scarlet hair away from his carmine eyes--the eyes that mark him a prince--and kisses him softly on that beautiful full mouth. The very mouth that gave him away even when he thought to hide himself from her regard under ridiculous titles and a cowl.

“Filthy old pervert,” she whispers into a fluttering ear and he snorts in delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have anything to say for myself. I regret nothing.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	23. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has there ever been a more perfect prompt for some AU BS? I think not, my dears.
> 
> round one - a madman with a tower  
> \- Stelmaria meets an eccentric man with a screwdriver
> 
> round two - anxiety  
> \- G'raha is fretting over an important decision
> 
> round three - [ _courting gift_ ]  
> \- The night sky is used as a bargaining chip
> 
> round four - paternity  
> \- A child is born
> 
> round five - forgiven  
> \- A rebirth leads to a new beginning
> 
> round six - reception  
> \- A wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of alternate universe jiggery-fuckery.
> 
> Only two of these are canon.

## Shuffle

Definition:  
1 : to mix in a mass confusedly : JUMBLE  
2 : to put or thrust aside or under cover  
3a : to rearrange (playing cards, dominoes, tiles, etc.) to produce a random order  
3b : to move about, back and forth, or from one place to another : SHIFT  
4a : to move by sliding along or back and forth without lifting  
4b : to perform (something, such as a dance) with a dragging, sliding step

####  **round one - a madman with a tower**

Stelmaria Molkot is out fishing for Ilsabardian bass near St. Coinach’s Find when a strange man approaches her.

In appearance he is handsome and dapper: lean and well-built in a tailored suit of black, with accents of red and gold. His black scarf is trimmed in the same gold, but it is of a ridiculous length--maybe 3 yalms long all told--and wrapped rather carelessly around his neck and shoulders. His hair and eyes are an unusually brilliant red, set upon a kind face dominated by a full, teasing mouth. The long, swaying tail and bouncing ears are brimming with barely suppressed mischief.

In manner he is _quite eccentric._ He never stops moving--or talking--and brandishes a curious device in his hand, covered with lights and buttons. It has a bit of virulently blue crystal at the top, and when he presses the buttons and waves it around wildly it makes an odd _‘bjoooowrrooowoowoowoooo’_ sound.

Without preamble, he asks, “Have any fish spoken to you today?” as he passes the device over her head and fishing equipment.

“No? Excuse me, but what are you doing?” She has dealt with many a drunkard in her time serving at the Seventh Heaven, but this is… different.

He looks at his device, frowning, and explains, ”I am taking aetheric readings with the sonic screwdriver but I seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. _Again.”_

Sighing heavily, he ponders aloud, “So why did the TARDIS bring me here?”

Stelmaria is not a stupid woman, but she has never heard so many nonsense words in her life, “Sonic screwdriver? TARDIS?”

Eyes lighting up and tail swaying, he seems pleased again, and is very obviously fond of showing off. “Yes! The TARDIS! It stands for ‘Time and Relative Dimensions in Space.’ Would you like to meet her? Miss--?”

“Molkot. Stelmaria Molkot.”

“How would you like to meet the TARDIS, Aria Molkot?”

______________________________

The TARDIS, it seems, is a tower made of crystal, a glimmering spire of the same violent blue as the screwdriver. She was frankly shocked that she had not noticed it at all. She suspected he had done something to make it invisible just so that he could make it visible again for her. To show off.

“It’s…. Quite stunning,” she says, impressed.

“The secret is not just to be stunning, which I find comes rather easily, to be honest. The tricky thing is getting exactly the right level of stun for the occasion,” he says with a rakish grin as he sets a hand on each of the golden doors before him and pushes them apart.

Her mouth falls open at the huge expanse of glittering azure space and she turns to him, eyes wide to say--

“It’s bigger on the inside. I know. Everyone says that,” and he reaches for her hand to lead her to what appears to be a teleportation pad.

It is a teleporter, in fact, and they arrive in a round crystal room filled with buzzing, blinking, whirring, and puffing equipment covered in more switches, gauges, and levers than she ever thought could fit in one place.

“How flashy. You seem partial to flash, what with the bright blue and the huge tower and the _scarf_ and all,” she gestures helplessly.

“Big flashy things have my name written all over them. Well…,” he pauses thoughtfully, “not yet, give me time and a crayon,” his eyes are twinkling at her reaction.

“Who _are_ you?” is all she can get out past her incredulity and… excitement? She feels as if she has stumbled onto something truly magical here and if she thinks too hard it might vanish.

“I am called the Scholar. I travel all over time and space. I learn new things. I try to solve problems. I am and always will be the optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes and the dreamer of improbable dreams. I dress smartly and say lots of clever things,” and he smiles again, looking ancient and wise even as he looks young and foolish. 

Her heart flips over in her chest to look at him.

“The universe is big,” he continues, “It’s vast and complicated and ridiculous. And sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen and we call them miracles.”

“I’m beginning to think that the TARDIS worked a miracle when she brought me here for you, Aria. Something has been missing for me lately, and I think she realized what it was before I did,” his voice turns thoughtful and he gazes across the multitude of instrument panels before he looks into her eyes again.

“There’s a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive…” he gestures at a glowing machine in the corner, “wormhole refractors...” another motion. ”You know the thing you need most of all?”

She shakes her head at his sudden seriousness.

“You need a hand to hold,” and he takes her hand in both of his. They are larger compared to hers, and warm.

“Travel with me. Be my companion for a time,” and he fixes her with those eyes--red and black. Mysterious.

Her pulse flutters at her neck and wrists, “I would--but I’m no one, nothing. Surely you want someone _important_ to help you do such _important_ things out in the universe?”

“In three hundred and twenty five years of time and space, I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important, Aria Molkot,” and she can tell that he means every word.

“Yes. Alright. I think I will,” and she smiles at him, feeling a little shy.

He doesn’t notice, as he has already bustled off to exchange his scarf for an identical one, only it is rearranged across his shoulders in a different way.

Seeing her watching in confusion, he explains, “I’m about to do something very clever and a tiny bit against the rules of the universe. It’s important that I’m properly dressed.”

He comes back to her, and his face is alive with excitement, “Let’s go somewhere now then! But I must warn you: outside those doors, we might see anything. We could find new worlds, terrifying monsters, impossible things. And if you come with me… nothing will ever be the same again.”

For the first time, he seems a little hesitant, like he believes that she might change her mind.

“I’m ready. Let’s go, Scholar.”

He beams.

“You get to press the button then, Aria.”

______________________________

_“He’s like fire and ice and rage. He’s like the night and the storm in the heart of the sun. He’s ancient and forever. He burns at the centre of time and he can see the turn of the universe. And… he’s wonderful.”_ \- Tim Latimer [Doctor Who - The Family of Blood (2007)]

  
  


####  **round two - anxiety**

_You’ve waited three hundred years for her, you both nearly died, and still--she loves you. What is there to worry about?_

_Besides everything,_ he groans, feeling a bit sick. The size of the small box in his hand is inversely proportional to its weight as a symbol: a confluence of multiple threads of destiny--their whole existence being tiny beads along the net of fate--and somehow they had still come together.

Had triumphed even. A miracle. _So why overthink it?_

“G’raha Tia, you are a classic overthinker. Just ask her already and have done with it.”

In his haste to hide the box under a couch cushion, he nearly drops it, before realizing that there is no point in hiding anything from Krile. Even if she didn’t already know, which it sounded like she did, she has many unsavory ways of finding out.

He opens it and shows her, gritting his teeth in expectation of a ribbing. However she only nods once, and motions for him to put it away before she joins him on the couch.

“What if she says no?” and just the thought of it makes his stomach flop over again. 

Pinching his face by the chin to turn his head from side to side, she examines him critically--rolling her eyes at what she sees, “By the Twelve look at you: ears drooping, green in the face… over Stelmaria? She’s a hopelessly optimistic fool just like you, she’ll say yes. Any other course is impossible for her.”

“But--” he protests, ears drooping, eyes downcast, running his hands over his arms to try to calm himself.

Her gaze softens with fond familiarity as she watches him fidget, “My sweet Raha, _no buts._ She’s put up with your eccentricities for more summers now than she ever spent alone. She loves you, so marry her. It really is that simple.”

She pats the back of his hand, and leaves him alone to sort himself out.

  
  


####  **round three - [ _courting gift_ ]**

  
  


He had not seen her since before she had defeated the Light with the power the fae had offered her, and he had to admit he was more than a _little_ apprehensive at the idea. Still, just because she had conquered via an option he hadn’t even considered, did not mean it had failed to achieve results. She had even managed to single-handedly send the Scions home.

And as a fellow Head of State, he must needs extend his congratulations in person on her ascension and on the return of night by her grace--he would keep his grief to himself.

“Welcome, [ _Crystal Lord_ ], have you been enjoying the night? Consider it my gift to you,” she is resplendent in a dress woven only from spider webs and dewdrops. They twinkle in the moonlight like the stars in the heavens over their heads.

She is, if anything, even more breathtakingly beautiful with the angular, feral characteristics of the fae laid over her own dear features. Her wings, newly made of pulsating light and intangible as gossamer, fascinate him as they shimmer in time with her breathing. He was instinctively attracted to her, even as he was repelled.

“A gift? Pray, I do not wish to offend, but I do not understand what you mean by gift?” he is not feigning misunderstanding--the fae do not give gifts freely. There is always a cost to be paid.

She laughs with a metallic ring, the clash of steel on steel, and he can taste the power in it. He, rather irrationally, wishes to hear it again but her next words shake him to the core, “You want to know what the catch is? Very well, I shall be more clear by calling it a [ _courting gift_ ].”

“A [ _courting gift_ ]?” His mouth has gone dry of clever words and careful flattery.

Her gaze is a weapon of deadly accuracy. She fixes him with it now and he does not know how he ever felt that he could interact with her as an equal. As his beloved, she was soft, warm, and full of laughter--but as the Fae King she is a force of nature: wild and cold as a snowstorm, and all the glittering sharpness found at the edge of a knife. 

“You are beginning to bore me [ _Crystal Lord_ ], and it would not be wise to do so. I have a great deal of power and there is much [ _great fun_ ] to be had and many [ _great works_ ] still undone, but I desire company.”

With the ethereal grace of a predator, she stalks towards him and takes his hand in hers. He notices that there is an iridescent pattern marked into her skin, like lace made of rainbows, or an ink composed of the crushed wings of morphos. Her nails are long, sharp, and cunning and they have been lacquered the bright red of blood, of Dalamud--of his Allagan eyes.

“Share my power. Share my love. Share my eternity. Accept my [ _courting gift_ ] and become my [ _beloved consort_ ]. That is the catch.”

He is her prey then. Probably, he should feel ashamed that the idea, and her touch, has set his heart to racing. He does not feel anything even remotely like shame--it is wanton desire.

“What would you consider acceptance [ _most beautiful king_ ]?” His words are careful, measured. He is pinned by her eyes like an insect primed for study.

She preens at his choice of words, “You may call me [ _Star of the Sea_ ], [ _Crystal Lord_ ]. Show me your face, and I will [ _coronate you_ ].”

Her smile is feral, but he hesitates, “[ _Star of the Sea_ ], I.. I fear--”

He fears everything. Most especially her.

That laugh sounds again, and his loins ache at her voice, “[ _Sleeping red prince of knowing smiles_ ], I recognized you. From the beginning.”

He freezes, but her taloned hand under his chin is surprisingly gentle, “Why do you fear? Show me your face so that you may warm my bed.”

He smiles and lifts his free hand to his cowl. He never could deny her anything.

“Yes.”

  
  


####  **round four - paternity**

“If it's a boy, Haurchefant. If it's a girl, Ysayle.”

She had suggested the names soon after they discovered she was pregnant, and as he knew how much his wife missed her departed friends he did not see any reason to object.

Now she was _here,_ and perfect, and red--just like him--and he honestly can not imagine any other name for her.

Stelmaria was resting, at last, and he was taking the chance to really look at his daughter for the first time. Ysayle had his brilliant red hair and the Allagan right eye, vertically bisected, but her left eye was fully black--like her mother’s--iris and pupil indistinguishable from each other.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she? Just like her father,” the exhaustion is evident in her voice, but so is joy.

He brings Ysayle over to see her mother, and bends at the waist to kiss the top of his wife’s head as she reclines in bed, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I’m trying, but I’m excited--to think that Ysayle shares her name day with the date the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have victory in Garlemald. It’s a pity we couldn’t go too, but I’ll be so glad to have everyone home,” she holds out her arms for Ysayle and G’raha passes the kit to her, missing the weight of her in his arms already.

_There will be plenty of time for more of that,_ he thinks. “Her many aunts and uncles will be thrilled to meet her at last, the Warrior of Light most of all.”

She huffs good-naturedly as she smoothes the top of the kit’s head and ears with affection, “My idiot brother Felcy’ra you mean? The Warrior of Light _and kit spoiler extraordinaire?_ Get your fill of her now, my love, because once he gets his hands on her it's over for us--she’ll never love anyone else.”

His heart swells to watch them together, and he suddenly wishes the same for his friend who risked everything to bring him home from the First, “Maybe he’ll finally settle down with Y’shtola. It could be good for him, it certainly was for me.”

She laughs quietly, not wanting to wake Ysayle, “Y’shtola? I thought he was seeing Hilda?” 

_“By the Twelve_ he just doesn’t know when to stop does he?” G’raha passes a hand over his face feeling shocked, but not _that_ shocked. He had spent a lot of time with Fel during the Crystal Tower expedition all those years ago and the man had never had trouble with meeting women--no, Fel’s problem was _keeping_ them.

Amusement at her sibling’s antics all but spent, she says tiredly, “Actually I think I will try to rest again, dear. Why don’t you take Ysayle to see Tataru and maybe you can eat something,” and punctuates her suggestion with a yawn.

Stelmaria is already asleep as he takes his daughter back from her, and pads quietly out of the room to find Tataru.

  
  


####  **round five - forgiven**

G’raha Tia knows that he was successful in taking the whole of Stelmaria’s overflowing, poisonous Light. He remembers it _distinctly,_ right down to the sensation of being unraveled by it into his component molecules before casting himself into the rift.

So how in seven hells is he in a Gridanian inn room? 

He recognizes that it is Gridania, just as he perceives that he is alive and breathing.

_But why? How?_ He sees his own hand--hale, but strange--as he passes it over his face and does a double take. Belly heavy with foreboding, he leaves the bed and moves with uncertain, apprehensive steps to the looking glass over the sink.

He is shocked to discover his appearance has changed quite drastically. He looks to be physically no more than thirty summers and his eyes are still red, _thank the Twelve,_ but the bangs over his face are as colorless as new snow--only the ends are the familiar russet of his youth. And his face _\--his skin--_ is the pure white of _alabaster,_ veined with _gold._

_A sin eater?!_

“Adventurer, grab your lance and come out! There’s someone I think you should meet,” a female voice calls from outside his door.

Many questions crowd his mind, but he feels his best chance of answers lies outside this room. He does as the voice bids him, and collects his lance from beside the door--a lance, he’d always wanted to learn to use one--before leaving the room.

The owner of the voice is Mother Miounne. She is speaking quickly to a young miqo'te woman with a bow across her back who turns to greet him as soon as he walks into the Adventurer's Guild proper moments later.

“Hello! Mother thinks I could use a friend close to my age. How strange that we are both such new adventurers and miqo'te too… “ she trails off, her eyes--one amethyst, one black as pitch--fixed on his.

Mother begins to fill the silence then, but he isn’t listening. He is pleased to discover that sin eaters can feel emotions after all. His heart is galloping merrily away in his chest as he recognizes her: the only woman he has ever loved, the woman he thought he had died to save, the face that dominated his dreams every night for three hundred long years.

The elezen woman waves them away to speak to someone else and the other miqo’te laughs then, looking at his serious expression, “I’m sorry, I chatter when I get nervous. I’m not terribly good with strangers… I don’t think I ever even said my name.”

She takes his hand to shake, and hers are so soft--so small--hardly any calluses and no scars that he can see. Her ears are low with shyness and her face demure as she nearly whispers, “This is the strangest feeling, but have we met before?”

“No, I do not think so, but mayhap in passing?” He is quiet too, his mouth dry with sudden nerves.

“My name is Stelmaria Molkot,” she tells him, finally, and he feels the eternal wind of destiny move through the trees of the Twelveswood to circle around them both. She has not yet let go of his hand, so he lifts it to his lips for a kiss.

_A new life needs a new name,_ he thinks and a calm settles over him.

“I am Forgiven Longing,” he replies, long white tail swaying, smiling in joy as he feels his ears dance, “It is my great pleasure to meet you, Lady Molkot.”

  
  


####  **round six - reception**

“Is Urianger drunk?” she asks, sounding more amused than anything else.

His mouth is already pressed to her ear, so he whispers, “Darling, I believe a full half of the Eorzean Alliance is drunk, and almost all of the Scions. Look, Thancred and Aymeric are openly weeping...”

She looks the next time they turn in that direction, “Oh. So they are. Why aren’t we drunk too?”

He huffs, “Because then we might not have bothered to show up, and Krile and Y'shtola would have been _very_ cross with us.”

“Ah yes. How much longer do you think we have to stay, then?” her words are a little tense on the edges--he can tell that she is reaching her limit for being the center of attention.

Even as the Warrior of Light, she has never really cared for it.

“Well it is _our_ wedding, after all,” he says truthfully, “I suppose it is over when we say it is?”

She looks in his eyes then and his breath catches afresh at the sight of her: wearing the long tightly fitted red dress that Tataru had made for her, the crown of orange blossoms nestled in the loose waves of her perfectly brushed heliotrope hair, the new ring on her left hand--black metal, forged from the heart of a falling star, inlaid with gold and set with precious rubies.

Her face however, is slightly petulant, “Is it over then?”

He turns thoughtful, and goes over a mental checklist to ascertain the _doneness_ of their situation: “We got married in front of every soul on Hydaelyn, we ate dinner, we had cake, we withstood many speeches, and now we are dancing.”

He twirls her expertly, as if to prove a point, “I believe the dancing is all that’s left?”

Finally, she smiles, “I am enjoying dancing with you, Raha. I should hate to stop now.”

She turns coquettish, gazing at him teasingly from under long lashes. The morphos in his stomach and the pounding of his ancient heart are not at all unpleasant.

“Then we dance,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all of G'raha's dialogue in round one is ripped straight from the Doctor's mouth. Y'all know I ain't that clever.
> 
> Forgiven Longing is the name of my sin eater alt.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	24. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seemingly unaware that she has cleaved him to the bone, as usual, she continues with a note of pride, “It is Azeyma rose hip wine, the batch I made some six moons ago on the Source is finally drinkable, though in truth it won’t be at it’s best until sometime next year. But I wanted to have a preview, and I do so love the contrast: To feel the moon on your face as one drinks a wine that tastes of the sun.”
> 
> She opens the flask and, after raising it in his direction with a mocking look that makes his blood race, takes a single sip. Her face becomes rapturous, and he is lost for a moment in memories of her--with the same expression--breathing his name as he explores her body with hands, lips, and teeth.
> 
> Nodding in approval at the fruit of her labors, she passes him the wine--the unexpected brush of her fingers against his spoken digits jolting him from his reverie.
> 
> Discomfited, his sip is rather ungainly and as a result his voice is husky with the wine and desire fighting in his throat, “It is rather poetic, I admit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Foibles.

## Beam

### 

Definition:  
1 : a long piece of heavy often squared timber suitable for use in construction  
2 : a ray or shaft of light  
3 : to direct to a particular audience  
4 : to send out rays of light  
5 : to smile with joy  


### 

Stelmaria stands on the precipice of the Crystarium’s watchtower, arms outstretched in supplication, an invocation to Menphina on her lips. 

He had seen her in prayer many times before, and every time he disturbed her it felt like an invasion of her privacy although she never seemed to mind. His own prayers to Azeyma were of the silent kind, and deeply personal: for the strength to face his end alone, to watch over his beloved all the rest of her days, and for luck--so that a century of planning did not go to waste.

She has not noticed him yet, and he watches in fascination as the beams of her goddess on her skin and hair turn her from an already stunning woman into an ethereal vision--a divinity in her own right. His tower rising behind her completes the picture, and he can almost believe that she has magicked a frozen moonbeam into being with her power to bridge the earth and sky. He can understand--a little--why Dalamud was always fruitlessly chasing Menphina across the heavens: being close to so much beauty is a heady drug indeed.

He huffs under his breath, amused. What a picture he must make: a lecherous old man of more than three hundred summers, head swimming with besotted fancies as he studies a radiant young woman. 

There is a smile in her voice as she says, “Good evening, Exarch. Out for your stroll?”

When she does not lower her arms or face him, he moves to turn away, thinking to leave her in privacy, “I am sorry to bother you, Stelmaria. I will not stay if--”

She does an about-face, beaming, and he knows that she has completed her devotions, “You are no bother. In fact, I am glad of your company and your conversation. I fear my nerves are keeping me awake.”

“I am pleased you feel that way, my friend,” and he feels himself coloring slightly under his hood at her honesty, “though I am loath to hear of your insomnia. Especially on the eve of a trip to Eulmore.”

A wry smile graces her lips, “Indeed, I am loath to experience it. Sit with me,” she says, taking a seat on the exposed beams of the tower--legs dangling into emptiness--and patting the space next to her.

He retreats into japery as he joins her, hoping that it covers the slight tremor of anxiety in his voice, “Only if you promise to help me up afterward, I don’t know if these old bones are sturdy enough to go it alone.” 

She laughs with a sparkle to match the light in her hair and eyes. “I could always bring you more warming oil, if you needed it.”

Since the first time she gave him the lavender scented oil, it has become a bit of a habit for them. She has regularly gifted him more, but she has not touched him since and they now arrive through Lyna. For his part, he cannot bring himself to actually use any, but he has--rather guiltily--been opening them sometimes. Just to enjoy the smell and think of her fondly.

While she has not touched him again, they  _ have _ developed an easy rapport between them, to his delight. Moments like this one--her words open and unguarded, a tease in her tone, her body free from tension--have become somewhat of a regular occurrence. She seems to genuinely enjoy his company and he has been very happy indeed of late because of it. Even Lyna has commented positively on the change in him. 

“No, thank you, I will be quite all right,” he says as his flush spreads further, prickling across his chest and shoulders. 

Hopefully, she can’t see it with the depth of the night and the shadow across his face, but most like her Keeper eyes have missed nothing. He is eternally grateful that if she  _ has _ noticed it, she declines to comment.

“I have something that’s even better than warming oil anyroad,” she says with a sing-song lilt to her tone, bringing a flask from the folds of her dress and wiggling it suggestively, “Why don’t we share it?”

“Let me guess. Wine?” he chuckles deeply with genuine mirth as their legs find a matching rhythm, swinging lazily in the darkness below.

“Ah,  _ my Lord Exarch, _ you know me so well,” her words are casual, but the meaning for him is immeasurable: he has never in all his three centuries known any one person as well as he knows her.

Seemingly unaware that she has cleaved him to the bone, as usual, she continues with a note of pride, “It is Azeyma rose hip wine, the batch I made some six moons ago on the Source is finally drinkable, though in truth it won’t be at it’s best until sometime next year. But I wanted to have a preview, and I do so love the contrast: To feel the moon on your face as one drinks a wine that tastes of the sun.”

She opens the flask and, after raising it in his direction with a mocking look that makes his blood race, takes a single sip. Her face becomes rapturous, and he is lost for a moment in memories of her--with the same expression--breathing his name as he explores her body with hands, lips, and teeth.

Nodding in approval at the fruit of her labors, she passes him the wine--the unexpected brush of her fingers against his spoken digits jolting him from his reverie.

Discomfited, his sip is rather ungainly and as a result his voice is husky with the wine and desire fighting in his throat, “It is rather poetic, I admit.”

The wine is slightly sweet, dry, and fruity, with a hint of what might be vanilla--but it burns like liquid fire in his throat and lungs. There is another, much more subtle flavor under the wine and his pulse quickens when he recognizes it: A taste of her mouth via the bottle. Moonbeams and starlight.

He makes to pass the drink back to her, and they touch again. If he did not know better he would think she was doing it on purpose, as a game.  _ Surely not now, _ he thinks, and--as if she knows exactly what he is thinking--her next sip is taken with her face a perfect mask of impassivity.

She catches him staring though, no doubt she can feel the beam of his eyes upon her, and the corner of her mouth tilts upward, “You look as though you have a question, Exarch. A gil for your thoughts, mayhap?”

Another sip. Another pass. A touch like the wings of a shimmering insect between them.

It occurs to him that he could deflect, demure, or lie, but he realizes suddenly that with her departure for Eulmore tomorrow he has  _ at most _ seventy two bells left to live. She tends to work very quickly indeed once her mind is made up, and this being the final Lightwarden...

A thousand, thousand more heartbeats mayhap, if Althyk is with him. If Azeyma and Menphina take pity on him.

They are both a little fuddled now, or at least he definitely is. The flask of wine moving from his crystal hand to hers of flesh with lingering touches is almost empty. The smallest fingers of their other hands overlap companionably as they lean back as a pair to watch the moon and stars vigorously tilting overhead.

_ I will make the heartbeats left to me count then, _ and he decides it is time to recklessly play his gambit.

“You told me once that I reminded you of someone you cared for. What happened? If you don’t mind indulging me,” he keeps his timbre feather light--evoking a passing interest and nothing more. Certainly not a perverse need to hear her speak of his past self with affection.

She is quiet for several moments as she studies the warp and weave of her dress before speaking, “He was…” a soft huffing sigh escapes her, “it sounds like lunacy to say  _ perfect-- _ but I thought he was certainly close enough for me.” 

She brings her legs up from the abyss then, and hugs them to her chest for comfort. He almost feels sorry,  _ would-- _ but these are some of the most wonderful words he has ever had the privilege to hear in all his long centuries of life.

“Always smiling and joking. Always curious. Always  _ talking, my gods!” _ A strained laugh, “A bit of a know-it-all, maybe, but he really was smart. I’d never been with a man so intelligent and fun before,” and she smiles then, but it is tinged with the grief that he knows she keeps locked inside--hidden even from the Scions, her family.

The grief that he alone is responsible for. He will atone for it with his life.

“Where is he now?” he asks gently, even as his heart screams  _ ‘I am right here!’ _

“Gone. He was the person I asked about when you first brought me here--G’raha Tia,” she stares at his tower--savior and curse--standing tall over the Crystarium as though it is the beam upon which the heavens rest.

He did not think he would hear his name again from her lips and the effect on him is like a summoning spell: the Exarch recedes and G’raha stirs into wakefulness. “I hope you find him again,” he manages, voice even, but his mind reels with a desperate longing.

A smile again, as light and sweet as the wine they had shared, and she fixes him with a rather peculiar expression. One he knows will plague him for entire suns while she is away in Eulmore.

“I am certain I will. In the meantime, there are so many other people to meet and befriend. Like you, Exarch. I find that I care  _ quite _ a bit for you,” she moves her hand away from where they were touching, and instead leans fully against his shoulder before interlacing her fingers with his.

His blood screams through his veins so fast he wonders, vaguely, if it is possible for him to expire on the spot by self-immolation. She has always been a physically affectionate person, most Keepers are, and some of it is probably the wine--

\--but he feels the axe over his head and it makes him feel dangerously  _ alive. _

“And I for you,” he whispers into her hair and squeezes her hand gently with his spoken fingers.

They sit quietly together for a few moments, gazing out at a beautiful world, and he is deeply at peace with his lot.

Until she turns her head to look up at him with that mysterious cant to the line of her mouth.

Slowly, as if he is a wild creature who might bolt in fear, she raises her free hand--and outlines the curve of his lips with a sly fingertip. His breath snags in his throat and every fiber of his ancient being sings with delicious prescience.

Then her mouth is on his and G'raha Tia crows ferociously in victory.

She is starlight and moonlight, sunshine and softly scudding clouds, astral and umbral, the alpha and the omega, the anchor point around which his universe revolves. The feeling of her lips, the taste of the wine, and the press of her beloved weight into him becomes a spontaneous benediction to every divine being he has ever heard of. Everything that he was, is now, and could have been is hers and only hers--there has never been anyone else.

They kiss for what feels like an eternity, whole galaxies rising like the tide before ebbing back into nothingness. 

Until another moment passes and it is over.

She is all business suddenly, but hidden underneath runs a bright thread of laughter if one knows to look for it--as he does, “I believe I will try to sleep now. Good company and a little wine have eased my worries for the time being. I thank you for that,  _ my lord,” _ and she stands, inclining her head at him in respect.

As if she did not just nearly obliterate him with a single chaste kiss.

Absolutely breathless with desire, he finds that he is far beyond caring in the slightest, “I am at your pleasure, Stelmaria,  _ as always.” _

He has never been more honest in his life.

  
Turning, she walks away, the heels of her boots clanking on the bare metal of the watchtower,  _ “Sweet dreams, Exarch.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfswuagadadbwiadhsb!!
> 
> Shoutout to Nautilus for making backwash sexy af.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	25. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long pale arm thrown carelessly over her waist moves to adjust the quilt before rubbing her chilled skin. His eyes were still closed as though he were sleeping, delicate lashes of the loveliest shade of silvery blue she has ever seen laying sweetly across his cheeks, but he quips, “Now now, we are much too naked and it is much too cold to be doing all that moving about. You’ll let the heat out, my lady.”

## Wish

### 

Definition:  
1 : to have a desire for (something, such as something unattainable)  
2 : to desire (a person or thing) to be as specified  


### 

Opening her eyes, she discovers a crackling fire burning in the hearth and multiple quilts weighing her down, but it is a welcome heat. She rolls over to face her bedmate, exposing a bare shoulder, and she is surprised to feel how cold the room is even with the fire roaring. Such are the perils of staying overnight at Camp Dragonhead. 

The long pale arm thrown carelessly over her waist moves to adjust the quilt before rubbing her chilled skin. His eyes were still closed as though he were sleeping, delicate lashes of the loveliest shade of silvery blue she has ever seen laying sweetly across his cheeks, but he quips, “Now now, we are much too naked and it is much too cold to be doing all that moving about. You’ll let the heat out, my lady.”

“Oh really?” she says with a teasing lilt as she squirms closer and throws one long leg over his narrow hips, “Couldn’t we just make more?”

“A knight lives to serve,” he laughs, pulling her small body underneath him and covering her mouth with his.

Big hands rough from many years of practice with sword and shield slide over her skin with delicious friction. His weight pins her to the bed, and his hair falling in a halo over her face is a curtain of silken starlight. Warm lips move from her mouth to leave many small brands across the line of her jaw before he lingers, breath warm, on the graceful column of her neck. She feels the slight pressure of his teeth on the sensitive skin there and gasps, trying to shift away.

He huffs a laugh into her throat at her pointless struggles--the elezen is much bigger than her, and strong... But she feels safe instead of trapped. He is a warrior in his own right and he means to protect her with all of his considerable skill. A knight does indeed live to serve, and as of late, he has been quite content to serve her.

His eyes, the blue of chill Coerthan skies before a snowstorm, are open now and he is looking at her face with great affection and something that might be--apprehension?

“If I were to give you a ring... would you wear it?” he asks, and his voice has taken on the mantle of seriousness that it wears when he commands his troops. He has never used it when they are alone together before.

The implication, and the sober look on his elegant face leave her more than a little breathless--heart pounding wildly, “What sort of ring, Ser Haurchefant Greystone?”

“The kind that signifies a betrothal, Lady Meioh,” a kiss then, no more than a brush of his lips against hers, “A betrothal to me.”

He waits calmly, eyes hooded, for her answer but his skin betrays his emotions by flushing under her hands. The top edge and points of his long ears are pink as well, and she finds it incredibly charming.

She is suffused with a bubbling warmth that spreads from her chest to the very tips of her fingers and toes--a happiness she has not felt since the betrayal in Ul’dah. Happy like she was before the pair of golden doors sundered her forever from the man she thought might be her twin flame.

She will not let such an opportunity pass her by again, not with this man that she loves equally as much.

Smiling gently, and with tears in her eyes she whispers, “I would wear it, my lord, and gladly.” She kisses him now, softly, slowly, pulling him close with her fingers threaded in his silver hair. “I love you.”

He beams against her lips, serious manner melting away like ice exposed to sunlight, “And I you.”

He fairly growls in her ear, “A celebration is in order then, I think,” and she can tell that he is thinking about making love to her--his hands and mouth ghosting over her skin are becoming insistent--but he suddenly stops, sighing, “a pity the page will be along shortly to remind us of our duties.”

She moves her hips urgently against him and runs her teeth over the edge of a warm ear, causing him to groan. Giggling, she says, “Let us see who comes first then? Us? Or the pageboy?”

He is completely in her thrall now, and pays homage to her breasts with his lips while he laughs again, “So unladylike.”

“You love it,” she purrs, locking her ankles around his waist.

_“By the Fury, I do.”_

______________________________

“Stelmaria? Whatever is the matter?”

G’raha had not seen her for several bells and he had been a little worried, irrationally--or so he thought. 

Until he finds her weeping on the floor of her room as though her heart has been broken. She looks completely miserable: collapsed in a puddle of her skirts, surrounded by a haphazard pile of half packed crates, a delicate ring of rose gold held in her hands. She must have come across where she had hidden it in her preparations for their move to the cottage. 

Hidden, not because she had forgotten him, but because sometimes it was too hard for her to remember.

He knows that he can not fix this, but he would not be satisfied with himself if he did not try. He crosses the room and places a hand on her shoulder to ask gently, “May I get you anything?”

She shakes her head: _No._

“Do you wish for me to leave you alone?” he does not want to leave her to her misery, but he will if that’s what she wants from him.

Her hands pull at his tunic until he sinks to join her on the floor, gathering her into his arms where she continues to sob. The warm tears fall onto his neck where they roll slowly down his skin and moisten his shirt.

He prays with silent fervor to all of the Twelve in turn that no one she loves will ever leave her alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be a bummer.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	26. When pigs fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “An invitation to dinner tomorrow evening? …..With Aymeric?! How many dinners does that make now, exactly?” Alisaie’s mouth hangs open in shock as she goggles at her companion from where she is tucked comfortably in that same companion’s bed. 
> 
> They are having a sleepover, which for them usually means that a nightshirt clad Alisaie invites herself into Stelmaria’s room late at night. She then proceeds to fall asleep in the Warrior’s bed and hogs the blankets.
> 
> Since the others had gone unconscious and Alphinaud had left with the Shadowhunter, there had been many such sleepovers. Alisaie found that she was not wont to sleep alone of late.

## When pigs fly

### 

Definition:  
Used to say that one thinks that something will never happen  


### 

“An invitation to dinner tomorrow evening? …..With Aymeric?! How many dinners does that make now, exactly?” Alisaie’s mouth hangs open in shock as she goggles at her companion from where she is tucked comfortably in that same companion’s bed. 

They are having a sleepover, which for them usually means that a nightshirt clad Alisaie invites herself into Stelmaria’s room late at night. She then proceeds to fall asleep in the Warrior’s bed and hogs the blankets.

Since the others had gone unconscious and Alphinaud had left with the Shadowhunter, there had been many such sleepovers. Alisaie found that she was not wont to sleep alone of late.

The younger woman had been idly skimming the pile of correspondence on the desk, and the invitation caught her eye. In truth, it was difficult to miss, seeing as it was larger than all the Warrior’s other letters in addition to being made from a rich, thick cream colored paper and faintly scented with sandalwood.

Stelmaria, for her part, is valiantly attempting to brush her long, violet hair before retiring to bed, but it does not seem to be going well. She pauses, meeting Alisaie’s eyes in her vanity mirror, “....I’ve lost count.”

_ Lost count? _ Alisaie knew that the first dinner had been shortly before her arrival in Ishgard--half-dead from a poisoned arrow--but it had been  _ many _ moons since then: Ala Mhigo and Doma were long liberated and Thancred, Y’shtola, and Urianger had all succumbed to what the remaining Scions had dubbed “the Calling” in the interim. 

Stelmaria had apparently been seeing Aymeric for dinner regularly  _ the entire time, _ yet had never seen fit to mention it to any of them.

_ Strange indeed, _ Alisaie thinks, but then another thought occurs to her

“Stelmaria, is the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights  _ courting _ you?” Alisaie asks teasingly, expecting a heated denial, a blush, a racy joke, a smile _ \--anything. _

The miqo’te does not do any of those things. She simply says, “We’re just friends,” and resumes brushing her hair with an air of unusual calm.

The elezen woman finds this calmness concerning. It reminds her, in some very unpleasant ways, of Ga Bu. She points at the riot of perfectly blood red Azeyma roses, redolent with fragrance on the bedside table, “Pray, where did the flowers come from then?” 

She had noticed them the moment she walked into Stelmaria’s room and thought nothing of it, the older woman loved flowers and plants of all kinds--a side effect of being a master botanist and alchemist--possibly she had even picked them herself on a whim. Now that Alisaie knew there was also an invitation to a private dinner from Ser Aymeric de Borel,  _ Lord Speaker of the the Ishgardian House of Lords and Lord Commander of the Temple Knights _ in the mix--

Now that she is thinking about it, weren’t there some mysterious chocolates last week?  _ And _ the week before? And a cool glitter of precious stones she had spotted at the ears of the Warrior only last moon?

“A gift,” Stelmaria replies, both syllables lush with that unnerving calm.

“From--?” Alisaie raises her white brows almost to her hairline in suspicion.  _ By the Twelve, she isn’t usually this oblivious is she? _

Alisaie can see her companion’s mind turning behind her eyes at the question, as if she is waking from a long sleep, “From Aymeric, to express his condolences…” Comprehension finally flickers over her face, “Oh gods he  _ is courting me.  _ This cannot be happening.” 

Stelmaria, the Warrior of Light, begins to tremble like a leaf as her head falls into her hands.

Alisaie can’t help but feel completely lost in the weeds as she crosses the room quickly to put a hand on the other woman’s shoulders, asking gently, “--Why ever not?”

They were both adults, and Aymeric was a kind man with a great deal of honorable intentions. Even if he was usually buried under his many obligations he seemed perfectly willing to make time to spend with Stelmaria. Surely, a little dalliance or even a  _ relationship _ would not be the end of the star as we know it?

Apparently it would be, as Stelmaria uses the elezen’s proximity to bury her face in the girl’s nightshirt and sob. 

Badly broken words are pouring from the Warrior, punctuated with heaving gasps, but Alisaie is able to piece together the general picture: “Aymeric wants a  _ Countess _ \--deserves… I am not--never-- _ can’t. _ Children too--and I--”

Alisaie does not know what to do but put her arms around her friend and let her weep. There is a pricking in her eyes at Stelmaria’s misery along with her own, but she blinks it away, It would not do to add to the Warrior’s anxieties just now.

A trifle more collected after a good cry, the older woman explains further: “I do not want to do this again. It’s impossible for me to give Aymeric what he wants.”

He is not mentioned by name, but Alisaie knows what Stelmaria means by ‘again’--Haurchefant. Alphinaud had told her the story, a very romantic one she had to admit, but with a deeply tragic ending. Alisaie knew too of still another man, lost just after they had first fought together within the Binding Coils, but the details of that one were a mystery to her. Other than the fact that it was yet another tragedy. No doubt the fallen Scions had reopened these old wounds on her soul and caused this numbness she was observing in her friend. Her friend who was not yet twenty five summers--and had still seen so much pain. A Scion’s life is difficult indeed.

She feels suddenly very young and silly in the face of Stelmaria’s overwhelming grief. She missed her brother and the called Scions yes, but those were burdens they could shoulder and overcome together. The Warrior’s personal demons were strange shadows in her mind that she tended to keep hidden until they very nearly swallowed her whole. For Stelmaria to admit so openly to her feelings, the strain must be very difficult indeed.

Gently, she smooths a hand over the miqo’te’s head, a gesture her own mother had used to comfort her when she was sad, or ill, “You can’t keep leading him on, Stelmaria, even I can see that. Just keep it simple--you don’t want what he wants. Ser Aymeric is a gentleman and a knight, he will understand, surely?”

“I--” the fists in her nightshirt tighten reflexively. Afraid.  _ Stelmaria is afraid _ \--and the realization fills Alisaie with dread and sorrow.

She had tried Alphinaud’s way. Now she would try hers.

Her tone is light, with a hint of her usual impishness as she jokes, “Tell him you have something horribly contagious and you don’t want him to catch it. Or tell him that he can  _ only _ have your hand when pigs fly and the sun rises in the west.”

She has another thought and laughs with genuine glee, her arm around Stelmaria’s shoulders squeezing with affection, “Ah! That’s it! Tell him that Alphinaud  _ forbade _ it and you dare not upset Commander Leveilleur.”

Alisaie knows that there is no way in all seven hells that Stelmaria could ever bring herself to say any of these things to  _ anyone, _ let alone Aymeric de Borel. She just desperately wants her friend--her sister--to feel better.

She is rewarded with a thin, watery laugh and relief floods through her at the sound. Her mouth begins to run against her better judgement, filling the strain with chatter, hoping to buoy the Warrior’s spirit, “We should sneak downstairs and have a little bit of that cake Tataru has been hoarding. Then, I can tell you some deliciously terrible things about Alphinaud’s days at the Studium.”

It feels good to say such things, and she can almost believe for a moment that everything is fine, “Oooh mayhap the details of that time one of his many girls confused the two of us and said the most  _ embarrassing _ things in my ear. I believe I mentioned it to you ages ago, but I never got the chance to tell the rest. It’ll fair curl your hair the things he got up to…”

Stelmaria moves away from her soaked nightshirt and the Warrior’s eyes are puffy, but she is smiling. Alisaie hopes that it is genuine, but there is a chill in her heart at the thought that it might be an act for her sake.  _ Much like my own, to be fair,  _ she thinks.

“Thank you, my dearest little sister. Let us go nick some cake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bummer, sorry not sorry.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	27. Translucent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carefully, he schools his face into polite warmth and waits behind his desk for her to open the door. It is not long at all before she enters the Umbilicus without knocking: she is the only person he permits to do so.
> 
> There is a slight frisson in his nerves when he realizes that she is wearing his favorite dress: a long sleeveless number the color of pomegranates with a lace back and neckline. She had told him, laughingly, that the dwarves had given it to her. He had not known whether to curse them or write them a thank-you note. His consumptive connection to the tower had significantly cooled the bottomless carnal drives of his youth, but they were definitely still there--as he was so helpfully reminded by the long journey his eyes took up the generous slit in her skirt. The flashes of creamy skin visible behind the heavy fabric was driving him mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to:
> 
> CT-era titles Lush & Ultracrepidarian  
> 5.0-era titles Foibles & Beam
> 
> Not explicit--yet.

## Translucent

### 

Definition:  
1 : permitting the passage of light:  
1a : transmitting and diffusing light so that objects beyond cannot be seen clearly  
1b : clear, transparent  
2 : free from disguise or falseness  


### 

In an instinctual way, she had always known who it was under the cowl. It had been a faint stirring of memory, no more than a whiff at the Exarch Gate: cinnamon, cloves, and ginger; parchment and spilled ink; available male--all easily perceptible to miqo’te. However, there was another, much more confusing scent in that same whiff--that of the charged metallic energy in the air before levin struck, raw and ancient power controlled and quiescent.

It was her Scholar… and yet  _ not _ her Scholar. She did not think it prudent to rule anything out, so she resolved to play his game--but she would make her own rules to better glean the truth.

She did know the truth, in the end, and she could not believe she had ever doubted it. Only that fool G’raha Tia could have planned something so dramatically, romantically, hopelessly stupid. She had even told him so when she visited him as he recovered after Amaurot.

He had been reading from an old journal, and he set it aside as she began to speak. He did not comment other than to apologize again and tell her that he loved her: “You do not have to reciprocate, I am content to simply have you in my life again.”

She had wished fervently every day for nearly two years that she could have heard those words from him during that long summer in the Syrcus Trench. Now they were hovering in the air between them, and she only kissed his forehead and left him to rest without another word.

Since then, it had been solely kisses.

Even after she had accepted his apology and agreed to allow him a second chance, she had been more than a little stung by his myriad secrets and half-truths. A quick, chaste peck on his cool crystalline cheek before she ran off to the Empty on another adventure without him. Slow, soft, and deep when she went to his rooms on the pretext of getting him to sleep more, when in truth she was greedy for his affection and his company. 

The moons had passed, and she found that in many ways--the most important ways--he had not changed at all. The excitable and irrepressible young Archon that she had once loved was still there, only sleeping, and their being together was waking him up. Like the goddess of his people, he would often beam at her across crowded rooms or a breakfast table with unfettered joy from beneath his silvering bangs. It was at those times that she could see him most clearly: impish smirk on his sinful mouth, bright carmine eyes full of laughter, ears dancing playfully as he thought of something witty to say to impress her. He was still gentle, charming, and thoughtful--just as quick to make a joke as to gracefully be the butt of one. She found herself smiling and laughing often with him, for his talent for leadership had also forged him into an exceptional conversationalist. He had even learned to dance--for diplomatic purposes only, he had told her with a roguish wink that made her pulse flutter in his hand.

Yet, he never pushed her and never asked for anything more than what she was comfortable giving him. As though he would be perfectly content to wait another hundred years for her to decide to come to him.

She had awoken that morning knowing that she did not intend to make him wait for even one more sun.

______________________________

She arrives at his tower unexpectedly, and the cool blue around him seems to pulse with her aether in welcome as she crosses the threshold. He is pleased of course, but flustered--she did not usually visit him during the day except for official business. So far as he was aware, there was none at the moment.

Carefully, he schools his face into polite warmth and waits behind his desk for her to open the door. It is not long at all before she enters the Umbilicus without knocking: she is the only person he permits to do so.

There is a slight frisson in his nerves when he realizes that she is wearing his favorite dress: a long sleeveless number the color of pomegranates with a lace back and neckline. She had told him, laughingly, that the  _ dwarves _ had given it to her. He had not known whether to curse them or write them a thank-you note. His consumptive connection to the tower had significantly cooled the bottomless carnal drives of his youth, but they were definitely still there--as he was so helpfully reminded by the long journey his eyes took up the generous slit in her skirt. The flashes of creamy skin visible behind the heavy fabric was driving him mad.

“Stelmaria, what brings you to see me this afternoon?” he asks, rather cooly, though something about her face has his belly roiling too. She is looking at him through long violet lashes hung low, the unbound silken hair in loose waves about her shoulders is the exact shade of heliotrope found at sunset. It is beginning to look like he will be having a very trying afternoon.

In spite of his mild discomfort, he is truly glad to see her. Gladder still that for all his mistakes she has given him--them--another chance.

“Raha--” she begins and, heart pounding at hearing his name, he suddenly feels that he might have an inkling of what she is about to say.

Two quick strides bring him from his desk to her side but he is still reluctant to touch her, unsure of his reception. His neck and cheeks prickle under the flush he can feel creeping under his skin, but he looks deeply into her mismatched eyes and hopes for a sign. 

“Take me to bed,” she says simply, ears and tail low, an answering color high in her own cheeks.

He is twenty four and a fool again, completely intoxicated by her perfume and her proximity--skin suddenly chafing at his clothing and aflame with need for her. Thankfully, a long century of command gives him enough self-control to gently cup her chin with spoken fingers before tilting her face upward. A soft, sweet brush of his trembling lips across hers, “Are you sure that this is what you want?”

Her breath is warm on his face as she whispers, “Yes. You are what I want.”

As though they had never parted, his arms find her waist to draw her close and she settles pleasantly against him, every one of her curves finding a berth. Their mouths meet again, lips parting to taste, and drinking deep of the desire they find in each other. Her fingernails scrape and slide up his arms, the crystal one nearly ringing like the rim of a wine glass. When her fingers dance across the broad planes of his shoulders before tangling in his hair, he sighs deeply into her mouth. When she delicately teases the edges of his ears by tracing them with thumb and forefinger he groans against the soft skin of her throat, unable to stop himself from setting his teeth there.

“Let me see you,” she breathes, pulling at his robes.

He obeys, removing a single piece of his complicated clothing between every kiss and every step towards his bedroom, until she is sitting on his bed and he is completely bared before her. Those fascinating eyes of hers--obsidian and amethyst, midnight and dusk--run slowly over every ilm of him and he feels as translucent as a pane of glass, as open and readable as a book. He resolves again that there will be no more secrets between them, for his part.

A sharp intake of her breath, “Menphina’s mercies…”

“What is it?” he asks, feeling suddenly self-conscious at the liberties the tower has taken with his body. There is a silly urge to cover himself, but he feigns calm and waits for her pronouncement while his pulse throbs painfully in his throat. He can feel his flush rising further up his face and into his scarlet hair-- _ no doubt clashing horribly, _ he thinks.

She sighs in pleasure, as if she is partaking of a lovely meal or viewing a fine work of art, “You were indeed something to look at before, Raha, but this is--” a shake of her head as she bites the fullness of her lower lip before continuing, “you are… the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

It is the first time he has felt pride at his appearance in a century.

______________________________

_ He really is beautiful. _ She finds that she cannot stop looking at him: the dear face she could not forget; the silver now in his hair, and at the very tip of his tail; the long lean lines of muscle, even after a century; and the crystal. Heavens preserve, the  _ crystal _ .

All of his top half with the exception of a rough triangle consisting of his left nipple, the left side of his ribcage, the left arm from mid-bicep to fingertips, the left hip, and the flat of his stomach is completely encased in the same golden-veined blue crystal as his throat and right arm. His backside is covered as well on the right side, but only as far across the middle as his vertebrae. Mercifully for her, everything from the waist down, save the narrow protrusion of his right hip bone, is no different than it was when she last saw him unclothed. 

There is something  _ breathtaking _ about the way the sunlight beaming in from the lone window in his bedroom hits him: he transforms into living flame and searing azure sky and scintillating rainbows. Haloed from behind, the crystal turns semi-translucent and scatters light in every direction--dazzling like a faceted diamond. Truly, he was much beloved by Azeyma to shine so brilliantly under her gaze.

It is a struggle to tear her eyes away from him, but she stands and turns away to lift her hair from the nape of her neck, “Help me with my dress.”

Those clever fingers are at her spine without hesitation, undoing each button methodically before placing the warmth of his teasing mouth over the newly exposed skin of her back. When the fastenings are all undone he slides his hands slowly forward over her shoulders, the dress falling to the floor in a sensuous glide over her skin. Those sinfully full lips are on her again--kissing, licking, and biting--trailing fire across the back of her neck and shoulder blades, as though he needs to relearn the taste of her skin with his changed body. 

Somehow, they are on the bed now with their bodies pressed together. She revels in the cool buzz of the crystal of his chest and hand against her fevered skin, a heady mix of his aether and that of the tower, and wonders vaguely what it will feel like between her legs. 

Obviously she is not alone in this line of thinking as he speaks with his mouth against her hair, slightly breathless, “Aria, I don’t think I’m going to last very long.”

She delights in his use of the old pet name--a nod to their shared love of music--and she laughs then, full and throaty, “I don’t think I will either to be quite honest.”

It feels entirely natural to kiss slowly down his chest and leave blossoming bruises, to run her tongue along the seam where the crystal of him meets flesh, and to hear him moan like a man dying of thirst being given that first sip of water. She feels powerful and dangerous with the line of her mouth pressed to his spoken ribs, “I thought we could get the easy ones out of the way first, if you don’t mind.”

When he looks down at her, he is glorious: softly flushed skin, glowing hair of burnished copper, shivering at her touch, and caught fast like prey in a trap.

He nods, eyes the color of a falling moon blown wide open, and she grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was getting too long so I had to bust it up. Sequels later?
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	28. Irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stelmaria, please…,” his pulse flickers under her tongue, chest and stomach rising and falling with exertion and causing the crystal to sparkle. Intensely ruby eyes move over her, but see nothing.
> 
> “Please what, Exarch?” It is difficult to grin like a fiend when one’s mouth is so busy, but she feels that she has done a respectable enough job of it.
> 
> “Please, use your mouth on me for the love of Azeyma--please--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit.
> 
> Sequel to Transparent.
> 
> I really won the lottery with today's word ya'll. Makeup oral ahoy!

## Irenic

### 

Definition:  
Favoring, conducive to, or operating toward peace, moderation, or conciliation  


### 

It had been a long and difficult road for them, but they had survived it. It was not over by any stretch of the imagination, but if they had managed to reunite after being separated by a calamity and three centuries of space and time... Anything was possible so long as they could face it together.

She had missed this--missed  _ him-- _ the feeling of being with him. The physical closeness, and not necessarily the nudity.  _ Though the nudity helps, of course, _ she thinks. She is an aficionado of his nudity in particular.

They had been together in the past, very often, though it had been nearly two years since the last time for her, and almost a century for him--three centuries if one counted his long sleep in the tower. The last time being the morning his ancestor’s wishes had claimed him for themselves.

Now that they were reconciled, she was looking forward to discovering the map of him all over again. Some things about him were very different now, the crystal for one. Other things have not changed at all.

He still sings aloud for her when she puts her fangs to his flesh, causing the hardened length of him to jump in her hand as she bites down on the sweet skin of his inner thigh. His voice, usually as smooth as warm silk or a fine brandy, is rough and jagged--crescendoing to a peak around her name, silver-tipped tail thwapping the bed sheets quite hard.

Her smile is feral. He did warn her that he would not be able to last long.

She soothes the bite with a slow swipe of her tongue and kisses a trail up his thigh and over, to run her lips slowly up and down where her hands have been stroking, tongue darting out at random, nails scratching across his thighs and hips. She does not fully take him, just teases--she wants him to ask for it specifically.

“Stelmaria, please…,” his pulse flickers under her tongue, chest and stomach rising and falling with exertion and causing the crystal to sparkle. Intensely ruby eyes move over her, but see nothing.

“Please  _ what, _ Exarch?” It is difficult to grin like a fiend when one’s mouth is so busy, but she feels that she has done a respectable enough job of it.

“Please, use your mouth on me for the love of Azeyma _ \--please--” _

She obliges him then, and hums with pleasure at the taste of him on her tongue--musk and male. His hands fist in her hair as he watches her bob up and down on him, panting heavily before throwing his head back to moan with abandon. The throb of him in her mouth creates an answering echo between her legs, and she has to resist the temptation to touch herself. 

He is getting close already, hips thrusting upward on her downward strokes, and she has a mind to deny him--but he is so beautiful when he is lost in what she can do to him. All her plans wither forgotten while she is fascinated with watching him writhe under her: the sensual full mouth trapped in white teeth, skin flushed high under a dusting of freckles like scattered constellations, the crystal of him warm and buzzing slightly beneath her ghosting fingers, the nails of his spoken hand scraping her scalp as his grip in the waves of her hair tightens reflexively in anticipation.

_ “Oh fuck!” _ and every muscle in his body tenses wildly as he comes deep in her mouth, nearly at the back of her throat--salt and sweat and delicious heat that she swallows greedily. The erotic noises he is making cause the ache between her legs to pulse again. She wonders dazedly if she might come just from his voice.

“That must have been good, you are not usually one to say such things,” she observes wryly, stretching out beside him and softly kissing his ears.

“I’m afraid I quite forgot myself,” he says suddenly awkward, pressing the warmth of his charmingly flushed face against her breasts, “It was always entirely too easy for you to fluster me beyond reason.”

She preens at the compliment as she whispers, “My turn,” against a fluttering scarlet ear.

“Pray, allow an old man time to get his breath back, darling,” he is laughing now and chaining heated kisses across the width of her collarbones like a string of pearls, “I’m not terribly sure I can move right now.”

He is quiet for a moment before his relaxed expression becomes obscenely devious, ears piqued in her direction, “Why don’t you sit on my face?”

She feels suddenly apprehensive, smothering him to death would be a rather unpleasant end to this otherwise idyllic conciliation between old lovers, “Are you sure?”

The devious look melts into the one he uses before he sends her on some fool’s errand:  _ ‘Pray, my friend, go speak with noble so-and-so and assist him in wrangling his dodos’ _ \--innocence covering a stubborn streak of complete immorality, his only tell being a slight curve to that wanton mouth. He loves to turn the tables on her, and always has. Enjoys making her as discomfited as she makes him. She is loath to admit it, but the passage of time and the burdens of leadership have only made him better at the game.

Pinned by the magnetism of his Allagan eyes, she finds that she is totally unable to turn her head away from an intensity that rivals the fall of Dalamud: “My dear, I have had a century to rank each and every one of the debauched things I wished to do to you. The many and varied positions in which I would make you repeatedly scream my name as your mind comes unraveled. This was,  _ by far, _ the winner,” his filthy words are like silk flowing over her skin. 

_ “Sit,” _ his command, the  _ Exarch’s command, _ leaves no room for argument.

He reaches down to drag her bodily upward to his face.  _ Old man, my left foot, _ she thinks--he is easily strong enough to move her in whatever way he desires. To him, ancient and powerful, she is as weightless and pliable as a child’s doll. His arms are steel bands around her thighs, forcing her down onto his mouth and holding her there unrelentingly. The contrast between them--the left of warm flesh and taut muscles, the right of humming crystal and rough edges--makes her feel delightfully delirious. And those damnable lips touching her after so long… the roiling embers in her belly flash into flames.

She fists one hand in his hair and clenches the headboard of his bed with the other--it is all she can do to hold on for dear life. His lips and tongue work over her thoroughly, their every stroke causing obscenities, prayers, and pleas to fall from her own mouth in response. There is nothing else in the universe, only  _ that mouth _ that has haunted her dreams since the day he left,  _ his mouth _ on her sensitive folds. Then he purrs against her, vibrating deep in his throat in the way that only Seekers can.

Her release is fast and savage, the delicate glass of her control shattering into oblivion and the heat trapped inside spreading everywhere in unrelenting waves. It makes her frantic: grinding down on his face, pulling his hair, thrashing her tail against his stomach, hoarsely screaming unintelligible gibberish.--save his name, naturally.

She is completely boneless and he has to move her again. His face has gone red from lack of air but he is laughing uproariously, and looking altogether too pleased with himself besides. Her tail, quite unbeknownst to her, is wrapped around his spoken wrist like a bracelet.  _ Traitor, _ she thinks.

“You old lecher. Degenerate pervert,” she accuses, but there is no heat in it.

He silences her grousing with a kiss, lips softly parted. His face is wet from pleasing her and she thrills at the unspoken intimacy of it. She should not have waited so long to come back to him.

“There, the easy ones are out of the way. Now what?” He looks precisely as righteous as a bandit caught with their hand in someone else’s pocket.

“I am sure we will think of something, Raha. Mayhap you have more  _ ideas  _ from your century-long descent into moral depravity?” The press of his sturdy warmth against her side comforts her even as it drives her need for feverish debasement.

“There is a list actually, if you would like to see it,” he offers, grinning impishly again and her heart flutters against her ribs, “Later though, I think.”

_ Later then, _ floats disconnectedly through her brain as he rises over her languid body. Animalistic impropriety is obvious in the upward line of his mouth and the playful cant of his russet ears. His sanguine eyes are heated as he gazes down at her.

_ There is plenty of time later. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll finish this in one more part, I swear. Unless I get screwed with a whack prompt. 
> 
> We'll see I guess?
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	29. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is not at all shocked to discover that he is smitten all over again. Love-drunk and stupid at the way she whispers his name into his ears. Endlessly fascinated by how her body responds to his gaze, his touch. Delighted at the press of buzzing crystalline angles to yielding soft curves. She fits against him perfectly, as though at some point lost in the faraway mists of time they had been one being--sundered now, but irresistibly drawn by fate, one to the other. Sun and moon. Sky and sea. Dawn Father and Dusk Mother. Azeyma and Menphina.
> 
> Ghosting his fingers and mouth over every fevered ilm of skin--the tapestry of her scars--he pays special attention to the marks she received after they were separated. The most recent wound, a gift from Elidibus wearing the corpse of Zenos, is responsible for the uneven texture under his lips on her left shoulder. It fair chills him to the bone with how deeply it travels into her chest, far too close to her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit.
> 
> Sequel to Translucent and Irenic.

## Paternal

### 

Definition:  
1a : of or relating to a father  
1b : like that of a father  
2 : received or inherited from one's male parent  
3 : related through one's father  


### 

He is not at all shocked to discover that he is smitten all over again. Love-drunk and stupid at the way she whispers his name into his ears. Endlessly fascinated by how her body responds to his gaze, his touch. Delighted at the press of buzzing crystalline angles to yielding soft curves. She fits against him perfectly, as though at some point lost in the faraway mists of time they had been one being--sundered now, but irresistibly drawn by fate, one to the other. Sun and moon. Sky and sea. Dawn Father and Dusk Mother. Azeyma and Menphina.

Ghosting his fingers and mouth over every fevered ilm of skin--the tapestry of her scars--he pays special attention to the marks she received after they were separated. The most recent wound, a gift from Elidibus wearing the corpse of Zenos, is responsible for the uneven texture under his lips on her left shoulder. It fair chills him to the bone with how deeply it travels into her chest, far too close to her heart.

She had taken that wound because he had Called to her in the midst of battle, and he did not think the guilt he felt over it would never dissipate. His Warrior has a will and spirit forged of unbending steel, but her body is as fragile as a spun glass trinket. A slayer of gods, Hydaelyn’s chosen, is pinned under his weight to the bed--a contradiction. He loves her all the more for it: the quivering long limbs, so thin and pale; soft, smooth skin that is easily bruised or cut; a heart that can be broken just like anyone else’s. He would know, he had broken it himself.

He cannot take away the hurts in her body or her mind--but he would soothe her soul with his love. 

His lips tease under her breasts, then cover a hardened nipple to lave it with his tongue. The hand of crystal runs down the ladder of her ribs, over the swell of a hip, and trails over her silken thigh to rest between her legs. She moans and arches into him, wetness coating his fingers as they lightly stroke glistening folds. The two digits he slides effortlessly inside make his head spin as if he is intoxicated.

“Raha, please--” her eyes are dark with a roil of unspoken emotion as she watches him.

_ It is intoxication, _ he thinks. If he cannot have her he feels he will die. His need to be inside of her is like a drug, and he obeys her without thinking by taking himself in hand to line up with the tilt of her hips under his.

That first ilm after an endless century of waiting stops his breath in his lungs. Her nails leave stinging half moons in the flesh of his arm as she hisses softly, baring fangs. Another ilm and he is trembling at her beautifully climbing flush and half-lidded eyes. He willingly tortures himself with deliberate slowness, just to watch--her lips parted slightly in an erotic sigh, hands now fisted behind her head in his pillows, long legs wrapped greedily around his hips and pulling him closer.

By the time he is fully sheathed she is moaning his name with abandon and grinding against his hips--he nearly spends right there. It takes placing his hand on the wall of the tower--crystal meeting crystal, aether reinforcing aether--to center himself again. He did not wish to rush mindlessly as he had that first time with her, a millenia ago, under the shadow of a mysterious Allagan construct.

When he was young, and a fool--more of a fool than he is now in any case--he was obsessed solely with Allag and the mystery of his paternal family’s legacy. Determined to receive a wealth of praise and endless showers of adulation from every possible corner. Then he met the Warrior of Light and was forced to choose between his past and his future. He consciously chose the past to save the future--a future he had hoped would be bright because of her presence in it.

The mystery had long been solved. He was the last of the blood of Allag and Master of the Crystal Tower--the beacon of hope that had saved two worlds. Beloved father and grandfather to the whole of Norvrandt. Founder of the Crystarium. Hailed far and wide for his wisdom, his effective leadership, and his gift for inspiring words. He had all the praise and adulation he could ever want, and then some.

It had been the right choice, even if events had turned out differently than he expected, and yet…

He found that he felt tired, lonely, and burdened for most of the last century. She had arrived and lifted that burden from him--shared it and understood it. If there was one thing that Stelmaria Meioh, Warrior of Light and Darkness knew all too well, it was the inescapable weight of destiny and the crushing fetters of duty. She often told him that he was free to have wants, indeed he  _ should  _ have them. Once the Scions went home he could do whatever he wished.

He wants to go home with her--it is the only thing he can think of.

When he pulls out and then presses back into her, he feels that he is already home--wherever she is. She is fire and silk inside, every part of her scorching hot against him and he would not care if she burned him to ash. His mouth finds the pulse at her throat, leaping wildly as he thrusts again and she rises to meet him. He needs her even closer, wants to be swallowed up in her, so he lifts her hips higher to change the angle and bottoms out on the next thrust--growling and tail thrashing.

She says his name then, rapturously with her eyes closed, in the same way that she prays to her goddess,  _ “Raha--oh Raha.” _

It makes him possessive for a moment, wanting her to worship  _ him  _ more--need  _ him  _ more, “Open your eyes and look at me, my love.”

They open then and fix on him steadily. It jolts straight through his body like levin from the top of his head to the tip of his cock inside of her, “Only look at me,” he demands, suddenly fierce.

Something about laying with her always made him impulsive. He had been with no few lovers in the past--of all genders--and he had never even thought about saying the words that sprang unbidden from his trembling lips now:  _ “Please _ don’t look at anyone else. I love you. I need you. I will never leave you again.”

Words he had wanted to say before he left her, but did not--because he was a coward then, and had a convenient excuse.

There are tears in her eyes, shining like the stars of her name, and he kisses her with his own sight blurred. The rocking of his hips and the long, slow, and inexorable slide of him in and out of her body is primal--instinctual. Perfectly right in every way, like the pull of the moon on the sea, the pattern of the seasons, the motion of the stars across the heavens. He would love her as long as Hydaelyn turned, and even after that. They might cease to exist and still he would love her. Even if she did not love him.

The coil of sizzling pressure low in his belly is tightening as her walls flutter against his cock. Her tail is entwined with his as they breathe heavily and move in a steady rhythm, quickly approaching a glittering precipice where they will fall heedlessly, mindlessly--joyfully.

She cries out his name as she comes unraveled, her entire body clenching hard around him, but her eyes never leave his face. The pressure of her gaze is all it takes for him to follow her over the edge into oblivion. He manages one last deep thrust, his entire awareness focused on the feeling of being consumed by her pulsating warmth and his teeth sink deeply into the faintly lavender scented skin at her scarred shoulder. His release is delirious insanity: a decimating wildfire, consciousness shattering and spinning off into nothingness, static in his empty brain, blank whiteness behind his eyelids.

They hold each other for a long time afterward in silence, lying side by side.

When she speaks, it takes an age for him to understand that she is even speaking Eorzean--much less what she is saying, “You were a petulant little shite of a Historian.”

He has no idea what prompted her thoughts, but he laughs heartily anyway, “I am still. Have you not noticed?”

He wants to touch her again already, so he does, palms sliding over everything within reach.

She bunts her head into his chin, her ears going flat but tickling him slightly. “Please,” she huffs good-naturedly, the tip of her tail flicking against his thigh, “You are so responsible and steady now as to be almost boring. A doddering old man who drinks weak, milky tea in sunny windows and retires to bed while it is still light out.”

His voice is low against her ear, and he enjoys teasing her while he smells more of the lavender that he loves so much, “Don’t threaten me with such a lovely idea, Aria. Mayhap I will do just that, so long as I can have your company.”

She flushes at his words, and he thinks she has never been more beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll thought I was going to make her call him daddy didn't you?
> 
> Be honest....
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	30. Splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> splinter the first  
> \- Stelmaria has an unexpected revelation about G'raha Tia (CT era)
> 
> splinter the second  
> \- The Exarch relives a favorite memory (Hooded Exarch, CT era memory)
> 
> splinter the third  
> \- at the center, she found him (5.3 missing scene)

## Splinter

### 

Definition:  
1a : a thin piece split or broken off lengthwise : SLIVER  
1b : a small needlelike particle  
2 : a group or faction broken away from a parent body  


### 

####  _**splinter the first** _

Stelmaria loved Cid nan Garlond like a father, but this was really beyond the pale. Rammbroes backing him up was salt in the wound.

_ You will be working closely with G’raha Tia on the matter of clearing the Labyrinth. Be nice. _

The other miqo’te is eccentric, in the manner of every Tia she had ever met, but he was by far the worst: an absolute monster whose only interest was the worst kind of attention seeking buffoonery. The bit with the aethersand was just the tip of the iceberg, she had discovered much to her chagrin. And if she had to hear him hold forth about some inconsequential nonsense regarding the  _ wonders of Allag _ for more than a half bell ever again--she had prepared some very firm plans about where she would hide the body.

G’raha bounces on the balls of his feet with barely restrained enthusiasm at the pronouncement in his favor, “Would you like to get started now? I have some very interesting sources for you to--”

Her purple eyes rake him over before dismissing him, turning on her heel to storm into his tent with the hope of getting this ordeal over with quickly. Frankly, not caring if he follows.

It looks like the detritus after an explosion. There is not a single surface uncluttered with books, papers, journals covered in a polyglot of shorthand, uncovered inkwells, quills, arrows, musical instruments, and miscellaneous enigmatic Allagan knicknacks. Having worked herself into a towering huff, first at the man and now at the mess, she picks up a broken shard of blue crystal from a table thinking to make her own space to work--and feels a sharp prick in her index finger.

With a hiss of pain and ears flattened, she tries to inspect the offending digit--only to discover the self-aggrandizing arse has her hand in his to examine it himself. Obviously he had followed. He is very light on his feet, as she well knew.

“A splinter,” he says with confidence, ears and tail flagged high--as though she had asked for his opinion. 

She had not.

Her finger is in his mouth before she can even think of a clever rejoinder.

A sliver of fire appears, low in her belly, coiled and waiting patiently like a snake in the grass. 

Desire. 

She had not felt it’s true sting since her relationship with Felcy’ra, the Keeper male whom she had hoped would give her a kit to raise.  _ Surely, _ the one drunken tryst with Thancred didn’t count if she couldn’t remember most of it, leaving aside the unsettling possibility that it had been Lahabrea and not Thancred at all.

Nonetheless there was the proof: the quickening pulse, the rush in her ears, a tingle between her thighs. The warmth of his mouth and the feeling of those soft lips on her hand is subtle torture. He sucks then, gently, his tongue passing smoothly over the ridges of her fingerprint. Her mind wanders happily to debauchery--the whispers of lovers, the feeling of skin on skin.

A daydream: He is holding her down from behind, teeth bared, pulling her hair and rutting into her fiercely until she comes so hard she nearly faints.

_ Oh gods, oh no. Not him. Not this idiot. Menphina, pray have mercy on your hopeless daughter. _

Then the splinter is out, and he spits it into a handkerchief to show her. Proud of himself, naturally. Still clasping her hand in his, strong fingers setting a secret blaze under her skin.

She yanks her hand away and punches him in the arm, lightly, suddenly terribly aware of her strength and not actually wishing to hurt him,  _ “Did you just--? _ What in seven hells are you doing?”

More heat pools within her when she realizes his arm is all muscle. Unsurprising really, he is a bard like her and not just a foo _ \--historian. _

He winces at the blow, but laughs as his ears dance in that charmingly irritating manner he seems to cultivate on purpose specifically to chafe her nerves, “That’s how one deals with splinters, Warrior. No need to thank me, but do please stop touching my things.” 

He bends to retrieve the broken shard of crystal she dropped and looks it over with his mismatched eyes carefully before setting it right back on the table, obviously unharmed.

_ Gods forbid the crystal take any damage, _ and she is suddenly feeling rather petulant--at her embarrassing revelation, and also that he seems more interested in his things than in her.

“Aye, but how am I supposed to work with you like this? I don’t even have a place to sit, much less to read,” she gestures at the rubbish bin masquerading as a tent they are standing in, tail swishing violently side to side, “I can’t even set my bow down.”

“You can sit on my bed,” he points vaguely to a pile of cushions in the corner. Her heart shudders into a gallop. _ Oh no. _

He becomes a little sheepish then, ears falling low as if sensing her reluctance, and she finds it a strange contrast to his usual brash puffery, “Why don’t we go to Seventh Heaven and get a table then? I can even buy you a drink, by way of apology. We can get to know each other--as colleagues?”

He smiles, wide and genuine. Angelic white teeth over wicked lips. Her traitor body responds with interest.  _ Damn.  _

It breaks her resolve. Once this is over he’ll go off after some other ruins or whatever it is historians do and it won’t matter anyroad. A little dalliance between consenting adults never hurt any one, least of all her. And quite frankly, she could use the stress relief. It might even be fun.

“Fine, but clean this place up for next time,” she stalks from the tent and this time, she hopes he follows in her wake.

  
  


####  _**splinter the second** _

  
  


As he ages, he finds that he spends far more time in the past by way of reminiscence than he did previously.

Now that night had been returned to the First and the Warrior was here in the flesh, he found he thought of one memory in particular every time he saw the moon reflected in still water. It is one of his favorites, and he finds himself drifting towards it often with fondness. Usually he is out for a walk, or alone in quiet study when this happens. Once, rather embarrassingly, he recalled it during a very long and rather dry diplomatic meeting and he was quite thankful again for his cowl and loose robes.

They had decided to go skinny dipping in Silvertear Lake for some reason that frankly escapes him now. Most likely  _ she _ had brought up the idea and he was just too besotted with her to refuse with any great enthusiasm. That was usually how these things went for them, back then.

He had waded out into the cool water up to his shoulders and she was clinging to his back like an opo-opo. She had said that she was too short to stand without drowning so far from the shore. Looking back, perhaps she was having a laugh at his expense, but it certainly hadn't bothered him in the slightest to have her breasts pressed warmly against him from behind. Or to have her legs tangled around his waist like tendrils of climbing ivy where he could easily run his hands over the ridiculously soft length of them.

She was, as always, a distraction beyond all measure, but he was doing what he had thought was a halfway decent job of telling a story. Some silly Hingan tale about rabbits on the moon that made sweet rice cakes.

He was coming to the ending, when he realized that her mouth was moving against his neck as she whispered into his Archon tattoo. He could not quite hear what she was saying, and he fairly burned with curiosity about it--he wanted to know, needed to know  _ everything. _

“Is my story boring you, Aria?” he had asked, and he swung her around to his front by her legs, gasping as the length of him pressed against her slippery folds.

She gracefully ignored his obvious noise of desire and laughed, “No of course not, but Menphina looks so beautiful tonight in the sky and in the water--see?” She gestured to the perfect reflection in the still waters of the lake.

All he could see was her--bathed in moonlight, shining like a star.

“I was counting my blessings and thought I should thank her,” she said, bunting against his chin before angling her face up to kiss him sweetly, tasting of aether and sin. 

He pinned her to a nearby rock and had her right there, under the looming shadow of Midgardsormr, the tower a violent slash of blue against the night sky. The still waters broke into ripples from the rhythmic movement of their bodies, splintering Menphina’s reflection beyond all recognition.

It is a secret fantasy of his that she remembers this particular tryst fondly as well, and would mayhap ask him to recreate it--but he is too old for such wishful thinking. Anyroad, she has no idea who is under the cowl and he intends to keep it that way.

  
  


####  _**splinter the third** _

  
  


Her lungs feel like they are full of a bubbling fluid and her legs are burning and wobbly, but she runs on. Up and up huge flights of steps and along endless corridors. Luckily her feet and heart know the way.

At the center, she finds him.

Asleep and flopped over his desk in the Umbilicus, like always.

The face she knows better than her own is relaxed in what appears to be sleep, but she knows it is not really. She thinks his hair might have grown longer, and he is so very  _ red: _ his scarlet tail is roped loosely over the arm of the chair, russet ears still in repose, burnished copper lashes laying delicately across his pinkened cheeks. Had he always been so red--or was it that she was just used to the silver now?

A push sits him up straight and, pulling his soul vessel from her bag, she places it in his slackened hands before wrapping her fingers over his. He is cold to the touch and it fills her with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

Then she waits.

And waits.

Her nerves get the better of her. She moves away to busy her hands with taking a scarf from her bag and arranging it carefully around his shoulders to ward off the chill. It is the deep green color favored by bards, so dark as to be almost imperceptible from black unless it is in the right light, trimmed and tassled in golden thread after the manner of his robes as Exarch. It looks wonderful on him, as she hoped it might. When she began it as her first real weaving project at the Find two summers ago, she had no idea that it would take her so long to complete--or the meaning that it would eventually hold. 

She had dutifully carried his soul vessel in it the last few suns on Norvrandt while the Scions said their final goodbyes. It gave him a little protection during the trip, and her a good excuse to finish it--a courting gift for her mate.

He is still not yet awake and she is really beginning to worry now, her belly filling with ice and her eyes with tears that splinter the humming azure room into rainbows. She sits across his lap then, still mindful of the vessel, and buries her face in his chest to weep inconsolably into his new scarf.

“You  _ promised, _ Raha--don’t you dare.” Her voice is breaking as it rises but she doesn’t care, she is panicked and sad and she does not know what else to do, “Don’t you dare leave me now!”

She begins to punctuate her shouts by beating weakly on his chest with a balled up fist, “You arse! You fool! You shite! You  _ bastard!” _

“Darling, I know you don’t much care for the tribal structure of Seekers, but this is not really the time to discuss the validity of my parent’s marriage,” for just waking up, he sounds very weak and tired.

She captures his mouth in a kiss.

The absolution of long moons of worry she had carried in her breast for him, for his wild plan, for the pair of them causes the dam inside her to break. His arms come around her and she sobs and sobs against him in relief, feeling his own tears leak onto her shoulder, their breathing coming in ragged gasps.

He calms long before she does, but he seems content to hold her against him while she sniffles, running his fingers through her hair and humming under his breath. Suddenly he asks, “Where did this scarf come from?”

She blushes, thankful he cannot see her face while it is pressed to his heart, “It’s for you. I kept you wrapped in it, on that last journey across Norvrandt.”

He kisses between her ears, “How thoughtful you are, my little nest of grass vipers. It’s lovely. I shall treasure it always.”

He is not a Keeper, so she knows that he does not really understand the significance behind the gift. Nor is it the right time to explain either--his manner is a bit… odd.

“Are you all right? You seem… drunk?” He is heavy lidded, grinning like a fool, and running his mouth along the edge of her violet ear.

It warms her heart, but again, it is not the best time.

Ruby eyes fix on hers as best they can, though they keep sliding off her, and his honeyed voice takes on just the barest shade of embarrassment, “Just a bit lightheaded. I am loath to say it, but I think I need to rest.”

She pulls away from him then and stands. It is necessary for her to help him up and once standing, she has to support him under the shoulder. Otherwise he sways and wobbles dangerously, giggling as though he really were drunk. She is very glad she left fleet-footed Hyzenthlay at the stables and rode steady, dependable Bertha the draught chocobo instead--the idea of keeping him on a fast moving bird filled her with dread.

“Ready?” she asks, when she feels she has him well enough under control. He nods very seriously, considering his hand is wandering in the vicinity of her backside. She decides to let it happen--perhaps the distraction will help him to stay biddable.

As they move slowly back out of the tower, he begins to sing the tune he was humming under his breath earlier. His voice is still magnificent, undiminished by his long and difficult journey:

_ Time _

_ Stellar stories starward bestrewn, slipping sidewise; see, they're snakes. _

_ Twixt the leaves you'll find naught amiss—missing aughts and crossing fates. _

_ Freedom surgent shifting ahead, comets dancing in her wake. _

_ To the cosmic clarion's accord, along the path not taken. _

“Where are we going? Home?” he seems to be sobering up a little after walking for a while, less giggly, but still very uncoordinated--and leaning against her rather hard.

She concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other, mouth set in a line, determined to get them to the doors and then outside before they both expire of old age, “To the Rising Stones, yes. Everyone is excited to see you.”

It is true, and she knows they intend to make him a Scion as well--adding one more title to the long list he already has: Archon G’raha Tia,  _ Historian, Student of Baldesion, Last Prince of Allag, Lord of the Crystal Tower, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, _ and  _ most beloved of the Warrior of Light _ .

He was going to be absolutely insufferable about it, she was well aware, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, between her own rapier wit and Krile’s penchant for well delivered put-downs she had little doubt that they could keep his head at a manageable circumference.

His long fingers find her chin, and he tilts her face gently upwards to kiss her. It is soft, and sweet, heavy with an unspoken promise that there will be many more to come, “I’ll go anywhere you would like, so long as you bring me with you, Aria, my Warrior.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! I'm done! And all on time as well!
> 
> It's been a pleasure for me my dears. I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
> #FFxivWrite2020 @ https://ffxiv-write.carrd.co/
> 
> Twitter: @The_Malacoda


	31. Table of Contents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFXIVwrite2020 completed!
> 
> I feel like I've come a long way! Definitely back in the swing of things.
> 
> Thank you, yes you, for reading this. Even if it was just you reading it all 2500 times. I appreciate you. xoxo
> 
> I hope to not fall out of writing again for another fifteen years. However, a little break may be in order before I start on some ideas I have cooking.
> 
> Special thanks to my rl husband, who read every word and could always be counted on to say "Looks fine to me." As though his wife, the light of his life, did not just straight up write 2k words of cat people fucking like it's going out of style. Even bought me an Exarch pillowcase for my birthday this year. What a champ.
> 
> He's doing a Final Fantasy themed Major Arcana deck for Inktober this year if you want to check out his [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/nojohnny5ive/). 
> 
> See ya'll next time!

**I. Crux** \-  _ [teen] [implied fem!wolxgraha] _

5.0 | The Warrior arrives on the First, and the Exarch prepares to play the game.

  
  


**II. Sway** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | Summoning a Primal will definitely solve everything, especially if one is the last prince of Allag.

  
  


**III. Muster** \-  _ [general] [implied stelmariaxexarch] _

pre 5.1 | Moren has been drinking. Alisaie finds out and needs to share.

_ Featuring: _ Alisaie Leveilleur, Moren

  
  


**IV. Clinch** \-  _ [mature] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | Sparring as foreplay.

_ Featuring: _ Scion family

  
  


**V. Matter of Fact** \-  _ [teen] [fem!wolxexarch] _

5.1 | You wish he would stop talking about killing himself.

  
  


**VI. Colloquial** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | Let’s get buzzed and talk about swearing.

_ Featuring: _ Scion family

  
  


**VII. Nonagenarian** \-  _ [teen] [fem!wolxhaurchefant ; implied fem!wolxgraha if you squint] _

timeline is a mess here, pray work with me ; 3.x | You have time to grieve, finally.

_ Featuring: _ Estinien Wyrmblood

  
  


**VIII. Clamor** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.2 | Stelmaria feels she is unable to give the Exarch what he wants.

  
  


**IX. Lush** \-  _ [explicit] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 2.1 | G’raha decides that it’s time to see where his infatuation might lead.

  
  


**X. Avail** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.2 | Of course she loves him, but can she say it out loud?

  
  


**XI. Ultracrepidarian** , sequel to  _ Lush - [explicit] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 2.1 | Take your pleasure where you can find it.

_ Featuring: _ Thancred Waters, Y’shtola Rhul

  
  


**XII. Tooth and Nail** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.2 | The Exarch can’t pour from an empty glass. It doesn’t stop him from trying.

  
  


**XIII. Verbiage** \-  _ [general] [implied fem!wolxhooded!exarch] _

5.0 | The lies cloak him just as well as the shadows under the cowl.

_ Featuring: _ Y’shtola Rhul

  
  


**XIV. Part** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxgraha ; stelmariaxhaurchefant ; stelmariaxexarch] _

2.5, 3.0, 5.0, 5.3, post 5.3 | They have parted often, but they always find each other again.

  
  


**XV. Ache** \-  _ [explicit] [stelmariaxgraha ; implied azemxemet] _

post 5.3 | When his blood calls for domination and control, she yields.

  
  


**XVI. Lucubration** \-  _ [general] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | What does one do when they want to learn about someone else? Read their journals, of course.

_ Featuring: _ Alisaie Leveilleur, Alphinaud Leveilleur

  
  


**XVII. Fade** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxexarch] _

5.3 | He was a shell of himself before, and now he is whole.

  
  


**XVIII. Panglossian** \-  _ [general] [azemxemet ; implied fem!wolxexarch] _

5.0 | Azem’s optimism will be the death of him--of them all.

  
  


**XIX. Where the heart is** \-  _ [explicit] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | Sometimes the only place one can have any privacy is a dusty broom closet.

_ Featuring: _ Tataru Taru

  
  


**XX. Ubiquitous** \-  _ [general] [fem!wolxgraha] _

post 5.0, eighth umbral calamity | She is everywhere, and always. Even at the end of days.

  
  


**XXI. Foibles** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxhooded!exarch] _

5.0 | Stelmaria will save them all, even as she plays his game. The Exarch is looking forward to it with trepidation.

_ Featuring: _ Alisaie Leveilleur, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Lyna

  
  


**XXII. Argy-bargy** , sequel to  _ Where the heart is - [explicit] [stelmariaxgraha] _

post 5.3 | He might be leaving his boots out on purpose.

  
  


**XXIII. Shuffle** \-  _ [teen] [stelmariaxgraha] _

alternate universe jiggery fuckery

_ round one - a madman with a tower _ | Stelmaria meets an eccentric man with a screwdriver.

_ round two - anxiety _ | G'raha is fretting over an important decision.

_ round three - [courting gift] _ | The night sky is used as a bargaining chip.

_ round four - paternity _ | A child is born.

_ round five - forgiven _ | A rebirth leads to a new beginning.

_ round six - reception _ | A wedding.

  
  
  


**XXIV. Beam** , sequel to  _ Foibles - [mature] [stelmariaxhooded!exarch] _

5.0 | She is going to destroy him before he can destroy himself.

  
  


**XXV. Wish** , sequel to  _ Where the heart is - [mature] [past stelmariaxhaurchefant ; stelmariaxgraha] _

3.0, post 5.3 | Moving can bring up sad memories.

  
  


**XXVI. When pigs fly** \-  _ [general] [attempted stelmariaxaymeric ; past stelmariaxhaurchefant ; past stelmariaxgraha] _

post 4.4 | Everything has gone to shit, but apparently Aymeric de Borel has a thirst that will not be denied.

_ Featuring: _ Alisaie Leveilleur

  
  


**XXVII. Translucent** , sequel to  _ Ultracrepidarian _ & _ Beam - [explicit] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.1 | Old lovers reunited.

  
  


**XXVIII. Irenic** , sequel to  _ Translucent - [explicit] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.1 | The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  
  


**XXIX. Paternal** , sequel to  _ Irenic - [explicit] [stelmariaxexarch] _

post 5.1 | He plans to take his time.

  
  


**XXX. Splinter** \-  _ [mature] [stelmariaxgraha] _

2.1, 5.0 recalling 2.x, 5.3 missing scene

_ splinter the first _ | Stelmaria has an unexpected revelation about G'raha Tia.

_ splinter the second _ | The Exarch relives a favorite memory.

_ splinter the third _ | At the center, she found him.


End file.
